Shit, yes, whizbang, right. Words flash through me. Words like lightning minus thunder, purple soundless flashes. Great battings of wings or eyelids, sans flying, zero blinking, no new seeing. I’ve absorbed and deadened the outside world. I eat the elements. Precipitates. They all rain in me now, come down in me all. I am the weather within, the life inside, soundproofed, everything I am, except when I go vestigial. My daughter has a date, and I could not believe my words if I could see them. I can’t hear them. I feel their shapes, patterns formed in my mouth, hard plastic like a magnet for the fridge, the crossbeam of the A. Wash yourself. She’s not prone to. Not going to marry this boy. Could be a girl this time. Girl the last few times. She has to attach. What she does. Reach for security. Helps her at school, hurts her at school, isn’t with these kids because of anything but attaching. I can’t wash. My body makes me think of the dust that settles on old limes. They’ll last for months when you leave them out. Still good. Better than apples. I had an uncle who liked to molest—no, that’s not fair. He didn’t molest you. He showed you him, and molested that, in front of you. If you offered to touch it, he said, no, that would be wrong. Very firm on this. In his lunch every day, he packed an onion. He could eat the onion like an apple, so don’t start giving me shit by saying, yes, but you wouldn’t eat a lime like an apple, they have lesser value that way, because you don’t know that, you can’t speak for everyone. I tried to eat an onion the way my uncle ate apples, and don’t get me wrong, I love the thought of onions. I couldn’t do it. Mouth feels stabbed.