by Clare Bayard
Poetry
At dusk, you hear the first tap down the block. The phone, disconnected last year, rings. Echoes off the white tile. You know the only call that can come through a dead line in Gaza City so you let it ring, handle in cradle. No bread crumbs in your clean kitchen. The dry empty sink reflects the last red sun. You pick up the baby’s things and open the front door to the hallway. The next door opens itself.
Clare Bayard is a writer, parent, and organizer who has been working for decades to end U.S. empire, midwife a democratic and sustainable future, and for a liberated Palestine. Clare’s writing on demilitarization and racial justice has been published in outlets including The Guardian, Common Dreams, Truthout, and The Hill. Clare has an MFA from the University of San Francisco and apprenticed in the streets with many mentors.