Headline Poem 8/23/14 -- the summer she started to count her steps

the summer she started to count her steps

there was the 

summer 

she started 

to count her steps. 

Six

for the right foot meant six 

for the left. 

It might have been winter or fall, 

or hell 

even spring,

  with dusty shelves and 

settling things. 

The 

babysitter looked perplexed, and asked,

"Why are you counting your steps?"

   (Because if she didn't then nobody         would, 

     and that mattered to her)

That was 

the beginning

 of the rituals that shifted

between fading and 

alternating, 

the same order with 

soap and shampoo. 

Then 

 the shoes,  

and socks when it was cold. 

Right foot first. 

She's wasn't sure 

what would happen if the 

left

 cut in line, 

But she was too afraid to try. 

Up against the table corner 

her arm would brush,

and then, 

the opposite side must get 

the rush

by way of the fridge 

or the doorway, or even a towel. 

Both sides must even out. 

I'm surprised she could walk 

anywhere 

with 

all of the cracks that still

hadn't broken her mother's back,

like they 

threatened in songs. 

But

It was 

early, and though her trust 

thrived

most days, she

wasn't ready 

to see what was 

in store 

   for her 

just yet.