What Is Held
My mother was a woven basket,
carrying warm laundry
from the back hall dryer.
Expanding and narrowing
for whatever we needed—
Towels, oranges, encouragement.
Multicolored stripes crisscrossed
her body like a lifeline that lost
its way home. Sides folding in
on themselves, the ways things fail.
The narrow opening at the top.
Perfect urn for ashes. I didn’t want that
Catholic wake with her cold sleeping
body. But I wasn’t there.
I had my own basket, in it a tiny infant.
When my mother’s basket broke,
I should have gone home, kept her
alive. I’m telling you, I could have.
Her final Instructions—
I should not come back
for the funeral. The funeral.
She knew. What basket holds
that knowing? What a cruel choice
I had: Save mother or daughter.
But my mother decided, fed me
from that last basket of bread.
I only had to swallow
like a baby bird.
Cultural Daily, June 15, 2025