![]() ![]() White men wearing floppy hats coax horses down rutted roads turned to shell-lined avenues. ![]() The air smells of burning coffee and shit. Long, dark canals cut the city at every turn. The grandest are laced with wrought iron and broad balconies: great stone palaces rising up and blotting out the sky. After we cross, there are more houses, one story, narrow and long, and then two stories, clustered close together, sometimes side to side, barely space for a person to stand between them. This river is wordless, old groans coming from its depths. The boat that carries us over this river is big enough that all the women fit. When the hand opens, there is a river, a river so wide the people on the other side are small as rabbits, half-frozen in their feed in the midmorning light. We leave the lake and the stilted houses behind the trees reach, swaying and nodding on all sides, and us in the middle of a green hand. We walk down into New Orleans, and each step is a little falling. Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read. ![]()
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