Without hands a woman would stand at her mirror looking back only, not touching, for how could she? Eyelid. Cheek. Earlobe. Nack-hollow. 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.