I was trying to be French,
or more precisely, existential –

you know, Sartre and all –
but it was only during the

fall from a ladder and
waiting to land on my back

when I wondered what would be
the essence of such a breakage.

This was a lifetime’s third major
drop: once taking out a large

rhododendron on landing; a
second, wrenching my arm when

lessening the descent, and today’s
complete backwards arc to hit the

ground in my own thunder. But I
couldn’t then speak French if

trying, the tip still there but a
teeth-drawn line on the tongue

where a full bite might have been,
as precarious as that fourth rung.