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. Lucille Clifton