a woman precedes me up the long rope,
her dangling braids the color of rain.
maybe I should have had braids.
maybe I should have kept the body I started,
slim and possible as a boy’s bone.
maybe I should have wanted less.
maybe I should have ignored the bowl in me
burning to be filled.
maybe I should have wanted less.
the woman passes the notch in the rope
marked Sixty.    i rise toward it, struggling
hand over hungry hand.