"The Personals" by Jubilee Rayne (ISSUE 1 - MAY 26')

I find myself reaching

For the personals of the paper

Like a broken record

Needle looking for the lost groove

I hold only the sheets

Ink latching to my pink skin

Red from the sun so often forgotten

Does it still exist in the winter months?

This paper does not have

The sheets that I like to read

This one is empty and bland

A soulless creature with no dignity

The weekly paper reminds me of my father

He delivered them one summer

Back when I was younger

Though not much younger than I am now

It was summertime and the windows were down

His air conditioning did not work

In his old flesh colored Buick

He got for a discount

Turns out it did not work in many other ways

He liked jazz and he’s not dead

I did not like jazz, not then,

I may as well be dead

Not really

It is summertime now and I’m

Looking through the paper for the personals

Where are the lonely men

And their sexy green cardigans?

I want to call them

Meet them at the diner

Even though I am much too tired of men

And I spent my paycheck already

I spent it on socks

What a strange thing to do

Is it strange though?

Socks are wonderful and

Always there for you when men aren’t

My favorite pair has holes now

And I promised them I would mend them

Take the needle and thread

Put a kiss over my thumb

And sew the edges clean once more

My father left town the winter following that summer

And he has never come back

And I still read the papers

And I still prefer riding with the windows down

My father calls but I never pick up

I hate the sound of his voice

It sounds so lonely and it reminds me

Of who I will be one day

The day I let inevitably take place

I told him I would send a postcard

But I keep forgetting

And I tried to call on Father’s Day

But he never picked up

And he never called back

I enjoy reading the comics too

They remind me of being a kid

When I would steal the comics from

My Popop’s Sunday paper

And laugh at the jokes I never understood

I have felt more like a kid this summer

Than any of the ones

More recent to now

I scraped my knees and have new scars

Elbows and hips of purple, blue, and green

Swollen with peeling scabs

Do people still read the comics?

Do people still put things in the personals?

Do people even reply to the personals anymore?

I went to the beach back in April

And spent my week writing

I wrote about the pink apartments

And the seagulls who ambushed the sea

I wrote about the ice-cream

Which dripped in between my toes

And the sun that shined much brighter

Than I could remember before

I wore my polka dot bathing suit

And I wrote about that

The sea roared as she held up the sky

And I wrote about that

Under my umbrella with my juice box

Like a kid with wide eyes

Hidden behind large sunglasses

I miss the feeling that being a kid held

Though it is almost as if that feeling

Never truly left

It’s still me who I am

And I still look through the same eyes

And have the same hands

Though my dad no longer has the Buick

Since they stopped letting him drive

And he complains about not seeing us

When he found leaving to come naturally

I can still recall the way his voice rang

As he hummed along to the jazz

That I once thought I hated

But now I cannot see a day without jazz

And the summertime air holds the same

Unconditioned feeling

With our windows rolled down

The countless mailboxes

Though much less than twenty years prior

We delivered their paper

Weekly paper

So that they could see their comics and personals

Like I always loved

And will forever love to see

But now I look at the news

And want to smoke cigarettes

Let the smoke dance in the blackening

Of my dirty lungs

Like the state of my mind

Where are the personals?

I want them to see me

The sheets of paper

Inked and stained

With new advertisements for

Cars no one wants

And tree work no one calls for

Let the ink bleed into my soul

And let my soul do the same

I hated the winter, for it took so long to leave

But here is the summer

Stinging my pink skin like a bee

And I trimmed my bangs

Like I so often want to do

But now they are choppy and uneven

Not even my curl pattern can hide it

Just like the summer

Back when I was younger

But not much younger than I am now

When we had the windows down

And had horrible aim when tossing

The papers into mailboxes or onto porches

When the sun was dim

Simmering in on its surroundings

The concrete hot under my toes

As I had to run and put the paper in the right place

Since I missed so many times before