Without hands
a woman would stand at her mirror 
looking back only, 
not touching, for how could she? 
The pulse points that wait to be dusted 
with jasmine
or lavender. 
The lips she rubs 
rose with a forefinger. 
She tends the image 
she sees in her glass, 
the cold replication 
of woman,
the one	
who dared eat
from her own hand 
the fruit of self-knowledge.

From Catching Light by Kathryn Stripling Byer. Copyright © 2002 by Kathryn Stripling Byer. Reproduced with the permission of Louisiana State University Press. All rights reserved.