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.