When your mother and I made love, 
having two sons, 
we coveted a daughter,
we did not think of your nose. 

We did not pay attention 
when you went to high school
and your nose went with you
defining you in that Gentile culture
as different, strange, not pretty.
Did not understand those tears
heard behind your door
were not just strains of young womanhood
but pain from remarks 
about your nose.

You flew through life,
nicknamed Nightingale,
a horseback rider,
a figure skater,
a musician with your own band,
successful at every endeavor, 
we did not think of your nose.

After you moved away,
we read the autobiography of your nose
when you shouted on Facebook 
the beauty of your nose—
that you declined a nose job—
rallied all those other women
to celebrate their profiles.

Your nose a badge of honor,
a face on which to stand your ground 
to tell the world
who you truly are.

Originally published in Broadkill Review