by Kathryn Stripling Byer

    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.