Dan Walsh is the author of Marl, a hybrid text concerned with parsing out the tension that arises from
conceptions of place as an agent of both creation and beckoning. He lives in New York City but insists on investigating small spaces and details.
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.