by Katharyn Howd Machan

The first problem is the carpet bag.
When asked to open it for inspection
she smiles her practically perfect smile
and pure pink appears on her cheeks.
When — spit-spot — in less than two minutes
she’s filled no fewer than thirteen bins
overflowing with dusters, lampshades, soaps,
attendants and guards gather close around
and begin to ask her Questions.

Smile even tighter, cheeks even more pink,
she refuses to give any references,
even though her I.D. is a magic mirror,
even though her passport is a gingerbread star.
They have no choice but to frisk her, of course —
feet wide apart, blue serge arms raised —
and when uniformed hands find a whirling compass
and a thick glass bottle that sweetly sloshes,
well, that’s the End of the Line.

Her hat with roses, her sensible shoes,
her prim white-collared cotton blouse:
nothing can save her from probing eyes,
no matter her gaze flashes lightning and ice,
no matter her voice withers sunshine and air.
Alike, alone, all humbled the same,
heartbroken we welcome her to our ranks
where Terror has shut the good fairies up
and parrots’ wings fall, torn.

P.L. Travers' novels for children about the magical Mary Poppins have always been favorites of mine, and I consider their literally wonderful protagonist a role model for my own persona as Zajal the Sugarplum Fairy when I offer StoryDance for young people. So when a couple of years ago, for an airplane journey, I made the mistake of wearing a denim vest decorated with tiny metal studs and therefore was vigorously and rigorously frisked, I placated myself by turning ire into art and imagined what might happen if dear M.P. had to go through airport security.

– Katharyn Howd Machan