Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty

hand. One bald head, crown down, spins on a middle finger. Another rolls chin over peak up an arm to the shoulder. When it rolls back down, the hand cradles it. Another hand swings in and unfastens the face from the head, presses it to the wall like a suction cup. “Open these eyes,” the angel says. So I blink them. The angel looks like a lump of coal. I blink again. The angel looks like a diamond screaming. I blink again. The head on top of the angel’s single neck turns like a carousel. The face passing now is