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Correspondence

Dan Walsh

I woke up with a ball of smoke in my mouth. It took an extra breath to convince myself the paint wasn’t falling off the walls. That I could stand without the room collapsing on me.

I got a letter in the mail, typed—even the signature. It was from home. I read it between the screams of buses, their brakes squealing like knives dragged across chandeliers or neurons stretched to the point of confession. It read: Remember you can leave any time you want and come back to us.

Outside, a neighbor was yelling hateful Spanish, twisting fires around each word. The sky was newspaper-colored. I wrote, Leave the revolver in my mailbox. I’m coming home.