Unsavored

In Texas, the sun bakes your skin 
until you scrape salt from your arms
like digging into a new tub of butter.

I haven’t been, but have been told.

Can I ask the sun for the dash
my brownies call for, sprinkle
a bit of me for you into the bowl: 

arms that have tangled into hair, 
brushed backs, dug fingers 
into cool dirt, overcooked chicken.

Why does the whole world
want to be timeless, eternal—
what about smaller, fleeting.

What if I don’t want to be universal. 

Remember the viral Tumblr post
where a woman made cupcakes
from the drips of her diva cup.

I too reblogged saying gross,
but spent hours clicking through 
the wet red of her husband’s eating. 

Her life measured in quarter cups. 

Is this why women have children
and couples name stars? Eat me up,
like I am swift and burning. 

I want to become something 
you take quick, a throat full of prickling
pop rocks you swallow unsavored.

Tilt your head back and drink of me deeply.

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 for Arcturus and an editorial assistant for Cimarron Review. Her work has appeared or in forthcoming in Harpur Palate, Cherry Tree, Crab Creek Review, and Carve Magazine. Find her at chrissymartinpoetry.com.