You survive the flooding of the Lower Ninth Ward by taking cover in the bottom quadrant of my heart. Body count zero, I scrawl, to let people know you are safe. I’m your search squad, your protection against natural hazards, your libertarian. Next time the floodwall fails, you’ll be waiting for me to save you from the wall of water. There will be room for you, for the seats pulled from the Louisiana Superdome, for mud-caked teddy bears, and even Fats Domino’s flood-ruined baby grand piano. I collect brokenness in my left atrium. Nature repairs her ravages – but not all.
X-Codes, or Katrina Crosses
1 November 2016