If I have a slightly nasal tone,

You don’t know which part of France I come from,

Or how hard it is to escape the nose

In my family.

I am only one of many children

Lost in gingham checks and calico. 

As one of the youngest,

I’m forgot,

And so they let me grow wild,

As natural as my unkempt hair.

The hand-me-downs I wear spoil me.

The cloth so soft from years of rough washings

That my older siblings bore.

I see their starched postures 

In the paintings done of them,

While I have never had a bath,

Or had to sit still

While an artist drew me.

I’m so far down the line

Of primogeniture,

And yet a child of love,

As royal as any other.

I may not ever rule or reign,

Nor will I stain some foreign land 

With blood of friend or foe,

Nor will I have to.

But what will become of me?

No portrait in the hall of me,

For all the world to see, 

That I too, was a royal?

But the river draws me,

And I can sit for hours

To watch him work,

While I shirk my name

And all the fame

And responsibilities.

Only the nose, someday,

May tell, or maybe 

It will only smell the roses,

The old, wild roses sprawling by the river.

-jenn