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.