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. Links: BBHMM by Tiana Clark The Music Video Chrissy Martin's Website Order Whole, Holy, Hot Send us Fan Mail Support the show