Pasta Night Without Diagnosis

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The water is hot & well-oiled,
your wide hand dropping salt.
When we eat, we watch the melting
butter pat on your noodles. I like
to think quiet moments like this
make me a better listener.
You tell me you joined a gym today
& I make my face into a smile.
I tell you the doctor still says
she can’t find what’s wrong &
you make a frown & eat a meatball.
You don’t know how to talk
about illness & sometimes
I forget you have a body.
I’d love to measure my body
only by my body & your body
by yours, but neither of us are flexible,
& 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 & celebrate
yours at the same time so we break
out the wine, toast to something.

Pasta Night Without Diagnosis by Chrissy Martin


Photo used under CC.

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About Author

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Chrissy Martin is a PhD student at Oklahoma State University and a recent graduate from the Poetry MFA program at Columbia College Chicago. She also holds a BA in English from The University of Akron. She is the Poetry Editor for Arcturus and an Editorial Assistant for Cimarron Review. Her work has appeared in Amazon's Day One, Voicemail Poems, (b)OINK, Bad Pony, and Lit.Cat. Find her at chrissymartinpoetry.com.

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