Okay,
to build this poem, first you need the following ingredients:
11. a physical feature or
talent (either one can be made up)
22. an ability, spectacular or
boring, it’s up to you
33. an object used for
presentation (i.e. a platter, a cake stand, a velvet box, a pedestal…)
44. an obsolete or
close-to-obsolete profession (i.e. blacksmith, milk maid, rider for the pony
express)
~~~
11.
that nose with that bump on it
22.
spreadsheet queen
33.
jewelry box from mom
44.
mail person
Write
a poem about the physical feature/talent (#1) and make sure it is more marvel
than brag, as if the thing is not truly part of you. As if it is a nuisance.
What hardships do you endure for carrying this thing? What easy chore is made
hard because ofit? What can it do that no one else’s can (#2)? Decide who
passed it down to you. What was the profession of the person you inherited it
from (#4)? How was it presented (#3)? What amazing thing might you become
because of this?
it started small,
as all of them seem to do
never stops growing
because of the cartilage and the like
it’s a prominent piece, but not in the wide
way,
more the narrow, bump in the middle kind,
like my cousins
the center of a frame.
it gets in the way-
at least it did when she was 2,
bumping it hard into the glass coffee
table,
they told her later it had broken then.
parents thought she’d just whacked it real
good-
she didn’t complain so they didn’t take her
in.
that bump changing it’s insides to twisted
maze,
now she’s spritzes sprays up into it twice
daily
cover the left nostril with your finger,
insert nozzle into right nostril,
angle outward and spritz while inhaling
fully.
repeat on other side
sinusitis
when she scrubs her face,
exfoliating easy, it gets in the way,
never leaving her alone or backing down
it just sits there.
makes her work around it.
but, it’s stubborn persistence makes a mean
spreadsheet
each row and column an independent artist’s
dream
it makes tax season seem exciting-
every line and receipt accounted for.
This nose owns Excel.
I got my nose from a man who carried
letters back and forth
between boxes and homes
before the internet
when paper was everything
and screens were what kept the mosquitos
out
there aren’t many like him anymore,
carting the lopsided canvas bags on tired
shoulders
under that smart, weather compatible postal
gear
he gave me this nose inside a jewelry box,
it was wrapped up all special
and when I opened the lid
the familiar humming song that my mother
sang
bounced back at me
the sound rang up and around and through
my nose,
through the maze of internal caverns
cartilage pretty
I told him that I quite liked the shape,
it was so small and quiet back then-
hadn’t been out through the ringing terror
that has been my face
it was safer before I opened that jewelry
box
but I’ve made good use of it.
It’s served me well
even if it gets in the way.
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