Kathryn Stripling Byer
Kathryn Stripling Byer (1944 / Camilla, Georgia)
Biography of Kathryn Stripling Byer
Kathryn Stripling Byer Poems
This, he said, giving the hickory leaf to me. Because I am poor. And he lifted my hand to his lips, kissed the fingers that might have worn
I hoe thawed ground with a vengeance. Winter has left my house empty of dried beans and meat. I am hungry
Without hands a woman would stand at her mirror looking back only, not touching, for how could she?
I still can't get it right
I don't know. I still can't get it right, the way those dirt roads cut across the flats and led to shacks where hounds and muddy shoats skulked roundabouts. Describing it sounds trite
Mountain Time [excerpt]
Up here in the mountains we know what extinct means. We've seen how our breath on a bitter night
The only clouds forming are crow clouds, the only shade, oaks
a woman would stand at her mirror
looking back only,
not touching, for how could she?
The pulse points that wait to be dusted