the dusted pulse points...

Kathryn Stripling Byer


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.


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


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,

sam of the ten thousand things said...

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