Crows

There is a salesman at the door. He sees death on my face. He is angry to see so much death there. I try to tell him, right now I'm fucking having a miscarriage, so I don't feel positive. He says he only wants to talk to people with positive attitudes. Anything less doesn't justify a magazine subscription. He also sells mood rings and magic beans in bags. I know he wants his blue wig to remind me of the sky or blood still held in a vein. I pull the wig off his head because there's already too much blood. Beneath, his scalp looks like small fists coiled into an early death. I try to close the door, but it's gone. My hand pulls away with a snake. When I hold it out to the salesman, it turns into a crow. My face grows a beak and feathers, and I fly off with the bird. Below us on the porch, the salesman becomes a stone, which cannot fly.