She’s not from here. Her nose says you can find me on the mother’s face too. Her nose says it looks like I’m pouting, like I was made for profile photographs. Take my picture. Her nose says it wants to be more like Akhmatova. Her nose says it’s useful, can detect fire, alcohol, and barbecue better than anyone in the state. Her nose says sometimes it’s unfortunate how sensitive it is, especially when it comes to colognes and perfumes, of how the last man she kissed, kissed her nose too and she knew it was because he liked looking at it in profile behind her dark hair like a villain, like the shadow of the blonde heroine.
Like El Cid
She’s here because she touched that face, like El Cid’s—not that notch above his lip, that’s not considered part of the beard. That’s a small fact real beard lovers know.
The beard hummed like a siren, like the brightest bit of candy. Uninvited, she wanted to tame it like a snake in some dusty marketplace far away. She’ll take whatever storm’s coming for her.
-- Jenny Sadre-Orafai is the author of the Finishing Line Press chapbook Weed Over Flower. Her poetry has appeared in: Poemeleon, Wicked Alice, FRiGG, Boxcar Poetry Review, Caesura, Gargoyle, and h_ngm_n. Sadre-Orafai’s prose has appeared in numerous anthologies, Ships that pass, and is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review. She holds an MFA and is poetry editor for JMWW. SadreOrafai is an Assistant Professor of English at Kennesaw State University