Fifteen is tempestuous, hurtling through time and space at break-neck speeds - desperately searching for anything you can cling on to. In the back of the library, Spring of 1997 to be precise, I crashed full stop into a solid anchor. Nikki Giovanni - the first poet I ever loved. She metered me to Jones beach, lyric-ed me in lilacs, taught me that poetry did not have to rhyme. It was savage, and primal, and beautiful… a way to put your insides on the outside. I held onto my copy of Those Who Ride the Night Winds so long that I had to pay fines - but I didn’t care. The sky had ripped open and birthed a thousand stars - a beautiful, ethereal fire that burns in my chest even still. for Nikki Giovanni ( June 7, 1943 – December 9, 2024)

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