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from “Stories about Hope”

Patrick Dundon

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While brushing my teeth, I found a small bird in my throat. As I lifted my chin to get a better look, a little foam dripped onto my neck and fell to the tile floor. The bird wanted out, so I rinsed and lay face-up on the couch. It ate through my trachea, pushed its body through a hole no bigger than a grape, flew into the living room window and fell to the floor, stunned, its feathers soaked in blood. As I waited for it to wake up, I began to believe the ceiling fan was a helicopter, unable to lift off.