Anthony Verouhis – Poetry in prose




The Years of Crisis





They boiled rocks and drank the juice of dirt.


On the floor they lay in the coldest winter nights.


Babushka hugs.


His arms around his wife,


Hers around her pregnant belly,


The baby inside clutching onto the serpentine cord that life flowed through.


A carpet embracing all three.




And outside,


The City.




In his dreams there would always be a tree in the room.


He would unwrap his wife and unborn baby and they would sit with their knees Deep in the brown moist earth,


Each deliriously sucking on one of its roots.


They would climb on each other’s shoulders and pick the sweetest fruits


and feed them to each other in frenzy.


Fluids and pulp spilling from their thirsty tongues and violent teeth.


They would dance to mystical songs sung by birds on branches


and get drunk on the sap that dripped off its thick sheltering trunk.


Sexual acts and affirmations of love would follow under the eyes of owls and bats and slimy frogs that had sworn their loyalty to the couple and their tree.


They would live


Each night and each day,


Under its security.


Their baby calmly growing with the pace of a monster.




Labor of Love




Slowly under sheets I stroke her while she sleeps.


In-between legs and thighs and to the beat of midnight sighs.


Mute conversation among bodies.


Our spirits mingle while we dream and caress delicately when in consciousness we sit slightly apart.


When we touch they take a back seat.


They relax on phantom like sofas of serenity and watch with the voyeuristic pleasure of union ruling their essence.


When we touch, you see, they don’t need to work.


It’s only during the other hours of the day that they labor tirelessly at keeping us together and during sleep they build fortifications of love inside.

Walls of desire and affection molded with precision and kisses sweet. And it helps when we sleep for us to hug and hold one another tight so that sweat and warmth and smell construct bridges between bodies and porous pores open and become one. That’s why our skin sticks to each other’s and then slowly unglues in a slow motion of disconnect when we awaken. It’s true that if we slept for days we would wake up as one. It’s how the physical imitates the workings of the internal interior within. The force that binds and wishes us together, battling against the separation of the external world. Every night our natures build the bonds that keep us connected and everyday the friction of the world breaks them down. But back to work our spirits diligently go and build reinforcements and pillars, buttressing the beautiful and sheltering the psyche from collapse. And when, like now, our sexes meet, without words or thoughts of doubt and disbelief, our spirits disengage and breathe deep breaths of satisfaction and hope. As one we move with hearts and minds aligned, shielded and protected and immune from all the sadness and the gloom.




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  • © 2011 - 2015
    ISSN: 2241-7230

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