Thanks again to Magpie Tales (http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/) for bringing this poem up from my memory. It was inspired by the photo below it, courtesy of photographer Louanne Watley's Evelyn Series. Of all the bones, these the most eloquent, lying upturned on the windowsill, holding a woman's life mapped in their grasp, every pulse-beat her heart's story.  (photo credit: Louanne Watley) The following poem is from my volume Catching Light (LSU Press), based on Louanne's series of photos documenting the last months of a woman who wished to be call Evelyn. Or Eve.
Vanity |
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Without handsa woman would stand at her mirrorlooking back only,not touching, for how could she? Eyelid. Cheek. Earlobe. Neck-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. | ||
