29.9.07

the dusted pulse points...

Kathryn Stripling Byer

Vanity


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.

*

Reading Byer these days. A poet of enormous depth and power.

4 comments:

megalopoet said...

well... as you know, i'm having a bit of a love/hate with ms. b. right now... apparently in addition to her duties as poet laureate she's also become the "no show" jones of poetry. BUT she is a poet of enormous gift and i am willing forgive her her trespasses.

perhaps a formal review of her new one is in order... i've been thinking of conjuring one...

sam of the ten thousand things said...

I understand your point completely.

megalopoet said...

i'm actually (sadly) missing her Together We Read discussion of lee smith's on agate hill tonight-- i can only bear one hour commutes 3 days a week. (snarkily, i am tempted to call the library)

still, you know i love her. do you have her latest collection? i know this one is from catching light.

stifling my bitter,
n

sam of the ten thousand things said...

I do have Coming to Rest. Wildwood Flower is, I think, my favorite. Maybe Black Shawl.