By Sherilyn Stevenson

Yessssssssss, he celebrates

while juice drips from fruit

as if from his fangs

and Mother Eve

through The Fall

groans, releasing at once

all her children—

bare and bawling and born

to a place smoldering

(forked-tongued-tempter stoking the coals)

for a chance to rise

from imminent ashes,

each of us a green seedling

springing from ruin

shaking off cinders

leaves settling into curls

under sunlight.




About Sherilyn Stevenson

Prose Editor at Segullah, Sherilyn Stevenson's essays and poetry appear in Dialogue, The Friend, LDS Living, Mothers Always Write, and other publications. She earned a Masters of English with a creative writing emphasis and works for state government in Utah.

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