P E R S O N A L S by C D W R I G H T

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. 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, 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. 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.