i taste the air now

it comes in waves

i was told the ships could be seen from our street.

the latino flaggers who stop traffic when the dump trucks come barreling through.

rodney who cried when he saw his backyard after the storm.

building the deck on top of the distribution tent, seven feet high in the air. i sit on it now and write.

VIOLET, LA. we’re moving into a little house on guerra street. ripped out the wiring, pulled down the concrete board, opened up windows. it smells like wood in there now, the attic space open and breathing. i can see the bricks from the inside now, only the studs and mortar holding it all together. in a couple weeks we’ll be moved out of the corrine baptist church and into Home, our new place of residency. julieanne and christi and james and rodney, and all the others whose names i can’t remember, have made us feel welcome here. they want us to stay, and i want to stay, want to keep working side by side with these people. i feel more home than anywhere else right now.

there’s thirteen of us here now: isabelle, mike, jared, spark, dosmi, ash, petie, carrie, marisha, dusty, hopper, erica, frida.