August 4, 2016

Three Poems by Chrysa Keenon

Three Poems by Chrysa Keenon


Oh how

I wish I was them

The two humans linked together

As one, pressing fingers together, creating

The invisible spark

Shooting across hearts, into starry eyes.

You can practically see how

Their heart beats sync together, until

Every beat is the echo of another.

She breathes out,

He breathes in

Her heart thumps,

His replies, now connected

In the same electrical wavelength

Like man made magic, strummed together

In the heavens above, reenacted on this earth


And as I see them falling farther

Into the love I crave

I want to hold

Your hand.



Cold Morning

Here I sit in the early hours of the morning

Listening to the birds squawk

And the clocks clang

The world is waking up—

Who said mornings were quiet? Silence was not an action

It is a state of being

I want silence when I wake up next to you

Not any damn birds chirping, but a hushed world

I want to hear your breath and heartbeat in my ears

Like the roaring ocean waves—consistent, never faltering.

Push, pull.

Thump, thump.

But instead, I am alone hearing those goddamn birds

And their happy morning song

While I have nothing but coffee rings

And an aching soul.





Subway cars passing like thunder

each with a voice; brakes screaming over each other to be heard.

In the sea of nameless bodies

no one notices one more, clutching on a shoulder strap like an anchor,

trying too hard to be casual.

They don’t know he is

clenching teeth, voice clawing at a closed throat, wanting to howl.

He just has to take one step

after another

like always, traveling home to

wails, shrill as the train’s rails

but from fleshy lips.

Cars slow.

He closes eyes, shutting out

the noise he will hear, sure to echo into the whispers of night.

Bodies shuffle, pushing

into the subway train, getting swallowed and packed like


Doors closing—like his eyes, like his heart—


she springs in

like a rose pushing up from snow

disrupting the water like a hurricane, jarring

him physically.

Big, shining eyes.

Warm voice. Speaking with

soft, small words and a crooked smile.

The subway lurches.


She is gone. But he is still breathing her air

wrapped in the vision of eyes like stars

and scent of sweet smelling hair.

Floating home,

through the daze of misty happiness

seeing nothing but the strange constellations

that patterned in her eyes and the lopsided teeth

behind her petal lips—

lips which did not screech or shout.

Gentle lips.

He returns the next day to the roaring underground storm,

getting off where he last saw that

halo of curls.

Delicate fingers tap on his shoulder, and

he turns

to see her: the rose and the hurricane

beautiful and terrifying.

She felt it, too.

Words can barely pass before

she leaps up and

presses her tender lips against his.

This, he thinks, is why lips were made.

Not for howling, but for


She takes his hand

and leads him into the car, smashing themselves into

a manmade

sardine can.

* * *

Chrysa Keenon is a student at Taylor University in Indiana, studying Professional Writing. She has been published in various newspapers and magazines, including Changes in Life and Evangelical Church Libraries. Chrysa works on staff on her school’s newspaper, The Echo. She spends the time she is not writing reading and perfecting her knitting skills.


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