Scratchy Weight

A gust tore the sack, dirt spilled

like dark secrets on cracked concrete.

My hands plunged into coarse weave—

rust and grit digging like old regrets.

Potatoes tumbled, rough and dull,

stained burlap catching sun in frayed edges.

I bent, gathering broken weight,

the sack’s scratchy breath against skin

like a worn jacket that won’t forget

its burdens, each thread a stubborn scar,

scraping slow across my palms,

pressing earth’s chill under nails.