Big Nose, Big Nose

The ex-husband's an artist. In

one of his classes while working on a
BFA, he needed one model to
draw in a number of different styles.
He chose to draw me and I thought,
sure, why not, no harm in that.
 
But in every portrait he drew me with
a humongous nose, a gargantuan
nose, an enormous nose.
 
da Vinci’s Mona Lisa with my
eyes and mouth and a costume
witch’s  warty nose. Rubens’
voluptuous nude Venus had my
curves, my ass, but in the
mirror, nothing’s visible but her nose.
From Picasso’s cubist period, I was
all nose and one black unblinking eye.
 
Then last December on the Paris metro, I
caught my reflection in the window.
Without a doubt, there was my prominent
nose – long, thin with a slight
bump near the top of the ridge. I
glanced around. The woman sitting across
from me had the exact same nose.
The woman next to me, the two men
in the aisle – they, too, had this nose.
Everywhere I went everyone I met
had my nose, this beautiful, regal nose.
For thirty years I’ve been under the
erroneous assumption that my nose is big.
But my nose isn’t big. It’s French.
Notes: 

Poetic Asides Prompt: Day 9

For today's prompt, write a self-portrait poem. Other artists study themselves to create compositions (not all of them exactly flattering either), so it is only natural that poets, who are word artists, write self-portrait poems from time to time. In fact, some poets make self-portrait poetry "their main thing." For at least today, make it yours.