I Was Eve that naked rib, weaving through tiny words on the tissue pages of my bible. I lifted her out of the ink and drank her. The curves of her body glowed, clothed only in the warmth of a young sun that seeped through the leaves of Eden. Eden, that scrim of perfection, paper thin and easily torn. She had seen the serpent, long and supple, wound around branches and coiled at the base of trees. It writhed a path in the soil and grass. Unrestricted. How would it feel, its one cord-like muscle massaging its way all over her body. She wanted to dance with it twined around her torso. Oh, the tingle of its tongue on her skin. Temptation to know and know, throw open the garden gates.
Deborrah Corr is a long-time resident of Seattle where she taught kindergarten for twenty-eight years. Currently, she is digging as deeply as she can into the joy and craft of poetry. She also quilts, reads, and enjoys the outdoors where she can be seen watching and sometimes talking with birds. Her work has appeared in Crosswinds Poetry Journal, The Halcyon, and Raven Chronicles and will be included in upcoming issues of The Main Street Rag and Sequoia Speaks.
I absolutely love this poem, Deborrah.
LikeLiked by 1 person