Rough weave bites into my palm

Rough weave bites into my palm,

fibers scratch beneath fluorescent glare.

Grain sacks crowd the noisy calm,

a prickling sharpness in the stale air.

Hands steady but unsteady too,

the coarse burlap tears my skin.

Fingers twitch to pull me through

memories tangled deep within.

The market hums, its scents and sounds,

a grit that lingers under skin.

Burlap stings like old wounds’ rounds,

and nothing here feels soft or thin.

I brush the fibers, catch the thorn,

a thread pulled tight, a ragged worn.