I always tried to bite my father’s face like when you’re hangnail picking. Only he wasn’t soft like ancient alien astronaut theories. And it was not really his face, not really. But his eyeball galled me like the fall of distant bells, the faintest drone of bees. So one day, I chawed that eye right out, or maybe it was the right eye out, but it felt wrong to me. It felt like a sucking pop dropped dangling like some participle. I craved to stay there in his arms holding him tight like the rope around an elephant’s leg. His other blue eye stared down at me. The whites, shot red and jaundiced, hinted at the sea after you’ve asked too many favors of the salt. I’ll always remember his husky screams, like the whispers of cicadas at sunset. But, in truth, I couldn’t help myself. I always hated being shaped like an apple in there.