by Jonathan Pessant
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Note: This is used as an offensive formation
to penetrate or to split crowds.
—United States Army Field Manual 3-19.15
“Civil Disturbance Operations”
At the prison gate we wait
two-by-two
a procession
soldier to shoulder.
We gaze into each other’s eyes.
Our riot gear tight
across our shins
our forearms, elbows, knees.
The flak vest constricting
the rise and fall
of our heartbeats.
(I don’t agree
with you
This place
swallows me, swallows you
heart whole down our throats
This place is reaching
like ivy up walls
like shotgun shells
blown apart with trigger fingers.
If you have to leave,
don’t run,
don’t leave
for war
The desert doesn’t
even love you.)
We’ve trained
incessantly
to love
capsaicin.
On windy days
we’re fucked,
too much love
chokes us, leaves
us useless.
Today, there’s no crying,
only a wedge
splintering
what’s ahead of us.
It’s important to note
there’s little to say
to sway your mind
to stay your legs, your feet
next to mine. Unison.
In step with the cadence.
You left, you left, your left right left.
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Jonathan Pessant is a Maine poet and Army veteran. He served as a Corrections NCO at the US Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. His poems appear in Milltown Press, Collateral Journal, Pedestal Magazine, and others.
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