Portside

Ode to the Cop Next to the One with the Pepper Spray

By Ryan McCarty

Your cheek turns, Christ-like

from your buddy with the buddha

belly blowing chemicals

on crowds of my students. One falls

facedown while her own mucus

and sweat bottlenecks in the rush

to exit every hole she has. You

might or might not know the blind

terror of drowning, the lung-torn

scream that almost always does

the trick eventually, boosted by the guts

heaving underneath, till air breaks

through. Ten seconds, not like Floyd,

but enough to feel your mother

pounding inside your skull,

calling for you this time, to forget the grass

hasn’t always mixed with gravel

on your knees and palms in a prayer

of almost-dying. Officer, you know

the straight-backed virtue

of duty, eyes cast to the horizon,

white vapors spreading

to the morning. You avoid the sight

of a baseball cap skirting the fog,

kneeling, eyes on your chin, helping

the retching shoulders rise.

I’ll buy you a beer. Let’s rewind

and rewatch on half-speed, wait

for one foot to stir, one hand to drop

the pose. Never. You never break.

While we play you again and again,

you can explain, for all of us

non-heroes, how to hold the line, to pity

the spastic terrified flapping

of robins, escaping their trees in the choke

your boy backhands into the crowd,

how to see the birds disperse

when sense commands, how to look

away from a body and really believe.

Ryan McCarty is a teacher and writer, living in Ypsilanti, MI. His poetry has appeared recently in Abandoned Mine, Blue Collar Review, Coal City Review, Major 7^th Magazine, Rattle, Topical Poetry, and Wasteland Review. He also writes regularly for Left Voice and Politics of the Kitchen Table with My Family Crafting Nearby (https://ryanmccarty.substack.com/).