I met you when I was just 18

You were an adult and cities 

shook when you spoke

And I could not see you 

In your perfect, round ‘fro

And your queer, astute blackness

I could not yet see myself

 

Reminding me that poetry is not a luxury

That my life is not a luxury

But something carved

Something owed 

to those who need me 

To speak their daring truth

Always already lying in wait

 

My little candle was too short to burn

You grabbed an awl and stabbed me

Pushed a new wick into my soft wax

Sang to me of burning 

You smelled of mangoes and sweet things

And smirked while you did it

 

You, dear Audre, ruined me

By showing me the truth of

Just how powerful and dangerous 

And afraid I should be of nothing