Episode Description
Welcome to In Three Poems, the show were we get to know today's poets three poems at a time. Today's guest is Dr. Chrissy Martin.
Chrissy is the author of Whole, Holy, Hot (Write Bloody, 2026). She is an Assistant Professor of English at Centenary College of Louisiana. She holds a PhD in poetry from Oklahoma State and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago. She is the Poetry Director and a founding editor for Arcturus. Her work has appeared in Harpur Palate, Cherry Tree, Cream City Review, and the minnesota review.
Poem 1.
"Pasta Night with Diagnosis," from Whole, Holy, Hot (Write Bloody, 2026), written by Chrissy Martin and read by David
Pasta Night Without Diagnosis
The water is hot and well-oiled,
your wide hand dropping salt.
When we eat, we watch the melting
butter pat on our noodles. I like
to think quiet moments like this
make me a better listener.
You tell me you joined a gym
and I make my face into a smile.
I tell you the doctor says she still
can’t find what’s wrong and you
make a frown and eat a meatball.
You don’t know how to talk
about illness and sometimes
I forget you have a body.
I’d love to measure my body
only by my body and your body
by yours, but neither of us is that flexible,
and besides, the bread in the oven
is burning. We move to a table outside
where there is plenty to look at
behind each other’s shoulders.
I tell you I don’t know how
to mourn my body and celebrate
yours at the same time so we break
out the wine, toast to something.
Poem 2.
"Nail Harmony," written and read by Chrissy Martin
Nail Harmony
Dolly Parton wrote “9 to 5” to the acrylic zip zip of her nails,
like a washboard, a typewriter, a worn-out woman’s anthem.
Wikipedia: Dolly Parton—lead vocals, nails. My friends and I
talk how we’d fight off men. It’s a game but not. They say
keys, pepper spray, knees, but I’ve always been partial to nails.
When my mother left for the man with a cruel son, I kept
my nails sharp for when he’d draw back, swing. I left
deep moons on both his wrists. I watched diamonds redden
across his back. When the police came to ask questions
I said protection, smaller. I said fists. I didn’t say help.
What would they take away when I was the weapon.
Dolly loves her men earthy, rail thin. She loves her husband:
The way he lets me be free. And lets me be me. He don’t try to choke me
and demand anything from me. The cruel son passed away
the cruelest way: farm equipment tip, teen body underneath,
grandmother’s house. I am still so sorry. I am still so afraid
to wear my nails short. Dolly and Patti LaBelle play their nails
together on daytime TV, sing, Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’, shortnin’,
Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread. Patti takes the high notes,
voice and nails. Dolly’s nails are thicker; maybe she waited
longer for a fresh set so her acrylics skewed alto. When my nails
break to the quick, wear tissue thin: press-ons. When the press-ons
split like the tongue of a snake: even better. When I go home
there are so many truck-back window memorials to the cruel son.
How do we mourn those who made us sharpen ourselves into weapons.
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