The Sack

The weave is tight and smells of wet decay,

scratching at my wrists through all the dirt.

I dragged the heavy mounds of brown all day,

until the grit worked deep beneath my shirt.

Now I sit with bread and cooling tea,

and find a single fiber on my chest.

The red, cross-hatched skin is all I see,

where the rough, coarse fabric used to rest.

My palms are pulsing with a dull, dry heat,

the ghost of the twine still biting in.

There’s a world of work beneath my feet,

and the sting of the earth against my skin.