Southpaw

Absent, I cup the apple in my dominant hand and lift the washing machine lid. All the carnies have gone home to their penchants. I never really understood how to eat fruit with that kind of authority. Bent wrist, two fingers free, the motor skills to look elsewhere and command with teeth. The windows are spread too thin but I will not notice. With the other hand I am somersaulting. I pour detergent. Instead, what falls out are squiggly tubes of blue lightning. Or maybe they are not tubes but blue yarn. Meek bolts, dangling hungry pieces. They strike anemic and I laugh at the lightning for being so harmless. The globe is a hollowed-out gourd. The carnies are not like most people. Their business is noise but they do not fear the absence of business. I want to hurt them into something beautiful. I screw the cap onto the bottle of detergent and some detergent spills onto my finger. Tissue in pockets will yield heinous results but I will not notice. I start the cycle. Jungian theory is one thing that can make me cry. If not for the Internet I would forget my numerical age. I lick the detergent from my finger and watch the apple bob among bras, panties and soap.