by Susan Vespoli
with a nod to Catherine Pierce’s protest poems
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In protest I watch eight cops
unload from their SUV, then strut
past me, a small granny with teal luggage
waiting at the airport for a ride.
In protest I say Beefcake.
Fitted khaki pants and black polo
shirts decaled with the word Police.
Guns strapped to each man’s thigh
with dark bands. In protest I say garter belts.
In protest I say (in my head) I know
what you did to my son. I saw the body
cam. In protest, I glare. Puffed out chests
and cocky swagger. In protest I say
Mr. America patrol. I say rooster
and remember the one that attacked
my granddaughter at the peacock park.
We thought it was a soft striped hen
with a red mohawk until it high-kicked
its claws into her scalp. Blood spurted
as she shrieked. In protest I say pull it in,
dudes. Fold those football-player-sized egos
into cloth napkins at a memorial service.
In protest I say humble. I say karma. I say
apologize. I want to scream, you don’t scare me,
but remember my other kid saying, watch out, Mom.
You’re gonna get yourself in trouble. In protest
I say fuck Superman. I say fuck cultural authority.
I bow down to sky, birds, dogs, poems, and peace.
Susan Vespoli lives in Phoenix, Arizona where she continues to write toward finding some sort of justice for her son, Adam Vespoli, who was shot and killed by police on March 12, 2022.
