I came to know my brother for the first time as an adult on a drunken weekend in New Orleans. I returned three winters later in the fall, living in St. Claude for a handful of weeks in a furnished school bus in the backyard of a retired circus performer named Otter.

New Orleans maintains the traditional concept of home, one that is forever unmoored, sinking, rising, sometimes out to sea — somewhere between the loins and solar plexus — constructed on trust not permanency.

Tripping over ghost bodies broken on every block, passing every shotgun house feeling every last…






Adam R. Burnett

Adam R. Burnett writes. More at adamrburnett.com

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