Somewhere back in 2020, in the long night after Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin murdered George Floyd—the latest in the endless procession of those whose lives have been stolen by agents of law enforcement, after Philando Castile, after Thurman Blevins, after Breonna Taylor, after Tamir Rice—and as people rose up in the Twin Cities and around the world, I called my dear friend, the poet Franny Choi.