Whole, Holy, Hot

Cover of Whole, Holy, Hot by Chrissy Martin. Pink background with orange-and-black border, bold black title text, a white bottle with purple flowers, a black-and-white photo of hands, cascading gemstones, and the author’s name with “POEMS.”

Write Bloody Publishing, April 17, 2026

Chrissy Martin’ s debut book of poetry, Whole, Holy, Hot, captures a mind and body on fire: illuminated, inflamed, blushed, and charred. Selfhood refracts through a kaleidoscope of pop culture, gender performance, shifting geographies, religious control, medical systems, and violence both intimate and structural—alongside love gathered in doorways and kitchens and the wild light of humor, play, and magic. Wielding theory in one hand and an espresso martini in the other, these poems balance critical inquiry with camp and whimsy. Through formal verse, sprawling prose poems, and whispered gossip, Whole, Holy, Hot challenges popular depictions of disability and mental illness and finds sharp truths in the reality TV confessional booth. This collection insists that every mind and body is already whole, already holy, and absolutely hot.

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Whole, Holy, Hot stretches the limits of desire: speaking the language and mess of the body, embracing and cursing ‘the machine’ of it. Bathing in popular culture, Martin owns a handmade pain, drawing new lines with a ferocity of voice until she powers through: ‘I am happy with my little engine. / I am busy with my productive.’ An unruly, fearless book.
— Jan Beatty, author of Dragstripping

This collection captures the realities of chronic illness and disability with language that transcends mere description into art. I nod at a phrase that reflects like a kaleidoscope, a poem that takes my breath—reminded I am not alone.
— Esmé Weijun Wang, Author of The Collected Schizophrenias
The poems of Whole, Holy, Hot defiantly sing of the disabled body that is still a sensual body, of the body that feels both chronic pain and desire. Chrissy Martin writes with radiance and wit, and forbids sentimentality. And for all of the pain, grief, and rage it contains, this is ultimately a rousing work of corporeal celebration: ‘Let me / revel in my body’s own brilliance, my raw naked hurt.’
— Nicky Beer, author of Real Phonies and Genuine Fakes