Peonies kissed at my bare thighs,
their pleading lips like silk.
Doves mourned upon their branches,
“Who will hear our song?”
as even the sky began to cry.
Behind I follow,
admiring his chest from which I sprung.
My, that serpent was wise.
His fruit was sweeter than bliss,
plenty worth having to march from Eden:
even shrouded in shame’s new cloak.
My footprints pressed deep into moss,
a sight I was triumphant to see.
Never was I meant to leave a mark,
yet I am the woman who defied God.
Alyssa Hammers has always felt the world possesses a hidden magic, one that we rarely feel except in literature. The written word shows us how mystical life truly is.