How Baskets Let Go
That's how wicker splinters—
suddenly, like pressure isn't pleasure
in a different light.
We think like baskets do,
our only goal to hold as much as possible
I hold hands, truths, memories, recipes.
Hold like pantries and full bellies,
well-traveled fruit flies and tended-to gardens;
our promises sit in the folds.
After so many years,
it only takes the wrong person to pick it up
for the basket to break—
a clean crack down the middle,
a seam gone unnoticed for too long.
We grieve like baskets do,
ribs unraveling,
warped where hands creased and bent,
wanting something more than wood.
Painter’s tape holds our edges closed,
and we revel in a second chance.
This time, we creak and sway,
but never splinter;
what a waste it would be
to let go of so much.
Alexis Barton is a sophomore at Kennesaw State University in Kennesaw, Georgia, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English and a Master’s in Professional Writing. Her work can be found in Sheepshead Review, The Journal of Undiscovered Poets, The Listening Eye, and more, and her debut poetry collection is set to be published by Dipity Press by the end of 2025. Barton also works as an intern poetry readers for Chestnut Review, where she has her own interview series. In her spare time, she enjoys baking macarons, drinking coffee, and watching the rain.
The Albion Review 