Coarse Material

Three bags of mulch in the trunk of the car,

the rain turning the burlap into a heavy, sodden skin.

I dragged them across the gravel,

the wet weave biting into my forearms

until the skin turned a hot, cross-hatched red.

It’s a material that hates you back.

The loose, hairy fibers caught on a hangnail,

tugging at the edge of the thumb

with a persistent, dull-witted cruelty.

I’m just trying to make the yard look right,

but the dirt is bleeding through the mesh,

staining my sleeves the color of a shallow grave.