Climbing

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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.

Written by Lucille Clifton

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