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.
Kathryn Stripling Byer
Kathryn Stripling Byer grew up in southwest Georgia, graduated from Wesleyan College
Date Published: 2002-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/vanity