Judith Terzi



Mistaken friend of portemanteau: a hook
in French, a hanger. English says a blend
of words. Or suitcase schlepped to ballet class,
faux leather then, new hybrid shine. Its lock
still vigorous, secure. The looking glass
inside the case reveals the leap of years
like wallaroos' galumph across the plains,
galwish of Amtrak trains. Like portmanteau,
my roots remain though evidence has changed
from tights and leotards to parents' gear
of gravesite maps and birth and death reports
and cards with sentiment in ballpoint pens.
No hazmat in the mix, no malware bash
to root out pleasure of a paper past