Assistant Editor Michael Alessi: The lines of Chrissy Martin’s flash essay “Flare” pulse brightly, serving up incantatory rhythms and breathless observations that poignantly evoke the speaker’s experience of chronic pain. Each flare-up becomes a moment of reckoning, but also a chance to explore and redefine the body’s connection to the world. In Martin’s hands, repetition and refrain become tools for deconstructing the language of suffering, yielding a form that gives voice to resilience and “a rejection of being owned.”
To hear Chrissy read the her microessay, click below:
Flare
Flare, as in flare up, as in, sorry, I’m not in the mood tonight. As in, my ache has traveled from toe tip to hip and I can’t risk movement. As in, the only thing I will be caressing softly tonight is this heating pad between the tight grip of my thighs.
Flare, as in, my legs ache so deep right now I will absolutely not wear a dress to dinner tonight. As in, I know peep-toe shoes would look really cute with this outfit, but I’ll be wearing closed-toe. As in, I’m getting older, I’m less open to trading pain for beauty, but I still celebrate when tights start trending and I can be cute and compressed.
Flare, as in the jeans I wore as a preteen that my skater shoes dampened and frayed. As in, how did I bear to let my feet sit in the wet when they already pulsed pain at night. As in, seeing trends the second time around makes me feel old. As in, how many times will the trends circle before I am gone.
Flare, as in solar flare, as in the radiation erupting from the sun, often as tall as ten stacked Earths. During the biggest flare recorded, miners woke up to what they thought was morning and began preparing breakfast. As in, I know I should eat breakfast, but I just tip back a handful of pills. As in, this heat would feel so good on any and every part of my body.
Flare, as in lens flare, as in what happens when I try to take a photo of the moon or sun. The light flaring outward, an asterisk not unlike a snowflake. As in, it does not want to be captured and folded neatly into my phone. As in, a rejection of being owned. As in, why do we call it taking photos as if you’ve torn something away. As in the way my green eyes reflect red in every photo of my face.
Flare, as in, what happens to my body with every door-crack draft and errant snowflake. As in, winter makes the pain receptors more sensitive, as in, the drop in atmospheric pressure, as in, God, it’s cold in here. As in, yes, I can tell when it’s going to rain or snow or anything from the sky, like a prophet.
Flare, as in, every flare up is worse than the last and what does that mean for next year and the year after. As in, I’m getting better at using the stars, the weather, my outfit to predict the precise location and degree of pain in my body. As in, I can see the future, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it, just toward it.
Chrissy Martin recently received her PhD from Oklahoma State University and has an MFA in poetry from Columbia College Chicago. She is the poetry editor and a founding editor for Arcturus. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Harpur Palate, Cherry Tree, Crab Creek Review, and Carve Magazine.
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