By A. D. Warrick
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References to police brutality
Wolfe tells me about
the way asphalt feels
when it’s ground into cheek.
I wrap gauze around her leg,
spring sunrise warming us
where we sit in the dew damp grass.
I point out a ladybug.
Let it crawl into my hand.
We watch as it leaps, precarious,
from perched fingertips.
Smile.
A cop asks us to move.
I tell him no,
torn knees still sticky, dried blood-black
from the night before.
A. D. Warrick (They/Them), or just Annika to their friends, is current graduate student teaching assistant and MFA candidate at the University of Central Arkansas. They are currently poetry editing for Arkana, and occasionally freelance for the Arkansas Times. When not writing, they generally like to spend their time obsessing over Magic the Gathering, pondering Mary Oliver while wandering the many state parks Arkansas offers, or singing karaoke badly at the local punk watering hole. If you would like to know more about them, or their writing you can follow them on instagram at @adwarrick, or present them with a pretty rock, for which they will offer in trade their undying love.
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