די ירושה

The suitcase no one packs
lives in the back of the closet
in a shroud of wedding boots and radio sweaters,
its hinges glued with labels from razed hotels.
It holds textiles, tax stamps,
a great-great-grandmother’s long shadow,
the name of the uncle who worked the tobacconist’s shop.
It holds recipes for sorrel and sour cherries.
It holds tefillin, welded iron, photography.
History drops a hot potato in your hands,
tells you to walk uphill with it, both ways.
I see the suitcase sometimes, battered, impenetrable.
When the time comes to travel,
it will not leave me behind.

Sonya Taaffe

Sonya Taaffe reads dead languages and tells living stories. Her short fiction and poetry have been collected most recently in Forget the Sleepless Shores (Lethe Press) and previously in Singing Innocence and Experience, Postcards from the Province of Hyphens, A Mayse-Bikhl, and Ghost Signs. She lives with her husband and two cats in Somerville, Massachusetts, where she writes about film for Patreon and remains proud of naming a Kuiper belt object.

Photo Credit: Rob Noyes

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