A woman sat on her porch. Said she’d stay there til the bulldozers came. Said listen up mayor. I was born here. In this stormworthy red brick. Everyone came here. Weathered storms with family. Barbecued for joy. Interrupted blood feuds. It stood through Katrina. The city nailed doors shut after the flood. Toxic mold invaded. She was arrested. Bulldozers made mountains. Rubble and riches. The riches were personal. Framed prom photos. Stuffed blue teddy. I saw an urn under rebar. The city sent an archeologist. Cataloged clay pipes. Museumed old blown glass. Before the new buildings went up. Glitzy and white. Across the underpass from the edge of the French Quarter. Prime turf.
–
Clare Bayard is a nerdy queer writer and parent who has been organizing for decades in grassroots movements to midwife a democratic and sustainable future. Clare’s home is in the Palestinian liberation and demilitarization movements, and among redwoods. Clare’s nonfiction and poetry have been anthologized and published widely.