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Seen from the side, it looks like a
flat piece of dough.
From the front, you’ll see a button; cartoonish almost.
Like Moana or Maui
Or even the goddess Te Fiti.
There are no bridges here, only ravines.
Spectacles come here to play; try to slide down to my upper lip.
But I slide them back up when all they can reach is the nose’s blunt tip.
Men don’t have to tilt their heads to kiss.
It’s a delight to press against my face, and in passion, they cherish.
I am perhaps the one muggle Voldemort would empathize with.
And in a fight, punches wouldn’t work when all the cartilage offers a frith.
And yet, it is this magnificent nose that you mock for being a valley and not a peak,
When it can, better than yours, catch the slightest whiff to the strongest reek.
This nose that you made me pull in hopes that it would give up and stretch.
This nose that you compared to a pig’s, leaving me feeling like a miserable wretch.
This nose that you wanted to clasp with a clip to construct a high bridge.
This nose that you wanted to slice and stuff to make it plastic.
This adorable nose, that if replaced, will alter my face.
This nose that is blunt. That is mine. It is fine. It isn’t a disgrace.
(Check out the full magazine here)