“Embuste,” Abuela said. 
            A more polite way to say 
                        “Lie!” or “Liar!” Not true

that story told—a tale 
            spun from cobwebs 
                        and a trail of smoke, 

so flimsy it crumbled 
            with the weight of 
                        its fiction. Embuste,

gentle reprimand, anger 
            demoted to delight, 
                        perhaps even pride.

Not for the brazenness  
            but for the embroidery.  
                        And then her lively eyes 

narrowed, warning us: 
            less hasty stitching  
                        next time. Sturdier thread.  

must look so small, undetectable even,
from the vantage point where I imagine 

a god could see me, and I do sometimes  
imagine a god like a sentient star

out beyond where our instruments 
could find it, then I talk myself 

out of the image. Out of the concept
entirely. From a distance, I know 

I’m an ant tunneling my way 
through sand between plastic panels, 

watched—or not—from outside. 
My puny movements on this planet, 

all the things I’ve done or built 
with my own body or mind, seem 

like nothing at all. But from the inside 
this life feels enormous, unlimited 

by the self—by selfness—
vaster even than the sparkling 

dark it can’t be seen from.