Hubris is hard to own in its breaking down
to a simplicity of matter, as if cells were stones,
small ones, collectively tall enough to threaten heaven
and make gods nervous.
After falling I stack, borrowed piece by borrowed piece
a remembered me, self-made without blueprints.
I use the words my mother taught:
shoe, leather, cup, mouth. It is not the sound
or the thing that’s misspoken;
it is the combination of need and tongue,
air and want that is not understood.
How else explain
why I am always translating myself
into common language?