Returned

We lost the case on a single word I bent. The interpreter oath pinned my lapel. Not asylum, “haven.” I said it softer, my tongue stalling on the “s,” and the officer checked “safe.” The folder shut like a door. After I looked up the word again—its roots, how it travels through deserts, papers, throats. I wrote corrections, apologies, literal translations, margins sticky with glue. Returned: no forwarding address. I kept one envelope sealed to know the weight. At night, when the phone rings, I answer in both languages and hold both doors. I say come. I say wait.