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MAYBE I AM EVE
We lie latent above undulating white bedsheets
like sea foam; skull on shinbone, she tracks
chicken pox marks down my calf with her fingertips;
hand sails from left to right like she’s writing.
Her penmanship is handsome – the kind you’d find
in a scroll. I was compared to Eve once
in flawless handwriting; she too faced temptation.
I ate too little; nearly choked on a camera tube,
undignified, lying sidewards on a cold, green table.
It travelled down my gullet like a rigid snake.
She opens a bottle, takes a sip then kisses my lips
so I can taste it, feeds Baileys from her mouth to mine
like I am a baby bird. She never hesitates at my thighs,
never stops to be disgusted by my stretch lines.
I wonder if she finds them kind of beautiful, even,
if she reads them like braille with her thumb;
these little bumps – stretch lines, goosepimples,
areola glands – telling her stories. She reads now
or maybe writes, hand gliding across my stomach,
lips kissing my jawline. Maybe I am Eve.
I feel like her in this moment, as her head lowers
to my chest – delightfully naked, longing for sweet fruits.
Ceri Savage is a British, Berlin-based writer with a BA in English Literature from the University of Exeter. Her writing is published in The FU Review, Drawn to the Light Press, Squawk Back, and A Flash of Silver-Green: Stories of The Nature of Cities. Ceri is the founder of Savage Edits, an editing business that provides self-publishing services to indie authors. Follow Ceri @cerisavagewrite(s).
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