Personals by C.D. Wright

Some nights I sleep with my dress on.
My teeth are small and even.
I don’t get headaches.
Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace.
If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas, I’d meet you in West Memphis tonight.
We could have a big time.
Danger, shoulder soft.
Do not lie or lean on me.
I’m still trying to find a job for which a simple machine isn’t better suited.
I’ve seen people die of money.
Look at Admiral Benbow.
I wish like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs.
Which reminds me of a little known fact: if we were going the speed of light,
this dome would be shrinking while we were gaining weight.
Isn’t the road crooked and steep.
In this humidity, I make repairs by night.
I’m not one among millions who saw Monroe’s face in the moon.
I go blank looking at that face.
If I could afford it I’d live in hotels.
I won awards in spelling and the Australian crawl.
Long long ago. Grandmother married a man named Ivan.
The men called him Eve.
Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there.