red apples on branches


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
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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.