The house is in need of repair, but is—for now, she says—still hers. After the storm,she laid hands on what she could reclaim:
Somewhere in the post-Katrina wreckage and disarray of my grandmother’s house, there is a photograph of my brother Joe and me, our arms around each other’s shoulders. We are at a long-gone nightclub in Gulfport, the Terrace Lounge, standing...
On Saturday, when I come to seemy brother, they call him, over loudspeaker,to the tower—a small guardroom
The water clock makes into a measurea flow so continuous none can say
I wanted to say I have come hometo bear witness, to read the signemblazoned on the church marquee—
I should like Kennedy, there’s something about walking past a display lined with copies of True Compass that strikes a sour chord.
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