Just experiementing with different forms for this…is it maybe really a prose poem, not a poem poem? Do prose poems exist? There was a Poetry Thursday prompt about them once-which I didn’t do…maybe this would have counted, if I’d done it at the time….
I’ve never noticed my nose before now. Other people, they’ve filled their heads with thoughts of nose jobs, working 9 to 5 to find the dough to shape the thing they think is: crows beak, hook, bulbous root - me, I used to laugh at them, think: Beverley Hills, self obsessed, more money than sense and having run out of space for clothes, turning to parts of their bodies instead. Yeah…I used to think neurotic and on my more charitable days - maybe damaged, body dysmorphia; the nose that knows too much about the human condition and is simply wishing to self destruct, snorting coke, taking blows. You know, the surgeon has to break your nose before he makes it better. Fixes it. Gives it the final job. The nose job.
Anyhow, I’ve never noticed my nose before now, but recently I’ve had some pictures done: profile, semi-side on and guess what? All I can see is crows beak, hook, bulbous root.
My mother, she says I’ve always had a slightly Jewish nose, like my father; like my nose knows Hebrew and can read the Cabala while I remain godless. My father, he says she doesn’t really understand but never liked his mother - my Jewish Gran, ever since she called my mum a fish wife - and of course, my mother she’s from a different generation.
Recently, I’ve been looking at my father’s family albumns - and I think I see my nose, longer than I thought it was, maybe slightly horsey, curving gently out. But I’d never want to get it broken. I’d never get it done.
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