Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Saeed Jones

Eve on Top

If I wasn't supposed to part my lips at the waiting bosom of that apple, red, glistening, desperate for my teeth, God wouldn't have given me such beauty. This river of hair was made for falling, flowing like spun bronze over shivering shoulders. This river of gold wires caressing my amber tipped breasts tells me that my lips can kiss whatever they desire. When my back first arched in creation above Eden's shag carpet, Adam ceased to be a mere idea fumbling among the foliage, love hardened within him like a rib bone but paradise was a wisp of smoke, a poorly written foreword. These legs, these lashes, these lips look better when they're closed or so I was soon told by a husband who preferred the company of angels to the curves of his waiting wife, warm, glowing, and desperate for his touch. Alone and drowning in my own reflection, I flirted with apples while Adam chatted incessantly with those gilded pigeons. The face in the sky had it all figured out: Leave the beautiful woman alone long enough and she'll start looking for snakes.