And if the rope knots come undone,
and if the ladder drops its rungs,
and if the hands forget to grasp,
and if what’s hanging falls at last,
there’ll still be more to fall apart—
we haven’t mentioned yet the heart
(not pictured here, but nonetheless
the heart’s an omnipresent lens).
It’s more a matter of when than if—
every woman fathoms this.
She’s been the hands curled on the shelf,
the rope, the rungs, the fall itself.