They say that devils cannot simply enter a human spirit. Possession must be given permission
but Satan did not ask permission when he entered me. When the Bible says the serpent spoke unto the woman,
it does not mention that her name
Call it the world’s first rape. Leaves tremble at the slightest movement, as I trembled upon his touch,
but their shuddering is silent. I had not yet learned to quake loudly enough to wake nations,
nor even to raise a warning voice to Eve. The poison in his words so easily disguised itself as bliss brought on by
anything but ignorance. The drug of temptation that left her
under his spell and victim to his plot. The fatal bite that would cause generation after generation to label her
“The mother of sin.”
They forget that the fruit came from the tree that burst forth from my chest. The knowledge
of good and evil that I could not contain under my surface. A burden too great to shoulder alone. Did Eve know
when he approached her? Did she tremble as his fingers brushed hers when he handed her the fruit,
the way I shook when he plucked that fruit from the centerpiece of my paradise? Could she feel
the weight of perfection? If we didn’t support each other, who else would?
Eve is the mother of all living, saints and sinners alike. And Eden is delight, both good and evil.
One bite, and Satan believed himself a conqueror. But we bite back. You see,
when he handed Eve the fruit, he handed me an ally, he handed her the key to
doors behind which laid every book on war-winning strategies. Eve went on to be the mother of women who are still hungry,
who will not keep their mouths shut, who demand the knowledge earned by their foremother. And while I may
have been left, I was not desolate. The seeds of all my forbidden fruits still thrive. They nourish the daughters of Eve,
allowing them to ask their questions, to voice their pride, to continue to study the battle
strategies their mother memorized. Eve and I made a pact, the day Satan penetrated the garden walls, that although
he may have deceived a woman, history would always call it
The Fall of Man.
By Anne Lester
Anne has been writing and performing poetry for two years. Her poems explore the ways she has seen mental illness, prejudice, and religion affect herself and those around her.