Eve’s Harvest

Eve’s Harvest by Jan Lunette

Feverish passion travelled from the top of her head,
to the tip of her fingers, and down her paintbrush.
The canvas reminded her of the life existing within
and the life waiting to complete her own.

In these moments, she played god.
But in every Eden, there is a devil in disguise
slithering on its belly, hissing Paradise goodbye.

The snake’s face was of Adonis
with curly chestnut hair, evergreen eyes, and
faded freckles splattered across his face
like stars bursting on purpose.

She could have wished upon them if she wanted.
His features, the set of such fair cruelties,
sent God’s hand into spasms and cramps.
Time spent and toiled on this creature showed.

In the middle of his throat, the poisonous fruit hanged,
snatching her eyes. She watched him;
each gaze burned with intent.

As her tongue itched for his forbidden sweetness,
her rib shook underneath her throbbing breasts.
She knew it once belonged to him.
She knew this meant they were bound.

Her hand, unable to recreate taste,
called upon her tongue for assistance.
The colours of scorching desire, of budding passion,
and of warm blood boiled by the other’s fiery bosom
tinted their flesh in likeness.

Their lips painted scarlet strokes;
and out of each other, they created art.

No words were exchanged,
for only kissing spoke.

The Heart Detects what the Eye Cannot by Jan Lunette

She was like a forest
tucked behind every
beautiful wonder
of the world —

a discovery
only my heart
could find.

<img class="wp-block-coblocks-author__avatar-img" src="https://evepoetry.files.wordpress.com/2021/08/bd086-116047138_321565692539631_8479830179039501428_n.jpg&quot; alt="<strong>Jan Lunette
Jan Lunette

I am Jan, a 21-year-old aspiring author/poet from London. I am a Filipino immigrant who fell in love with novels and poetry, so much so that led me to take up English Literature in university. I started writing when I was 14.

Poetry began as a way for me to kill time (productively), but for the last seven years, it has slowly evolved to be the only way I wish to live my life.

Just like a bird’s cry, I like to think my words on paper serve as evidence of my existence. I scream from the top of my lungs: I write because I am alive and I am alive because I write. 

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