Ritual

every morning she wakes
with the requisite need
to feel
deep
to the pulsing marrow
of tenderness

driven
by the warped, blue ache
of being

pain crosses her mind
briefly
indispensable

with quiet compulsion
she waits
for the clock
to equal nine

she stumbles
stands

right foot always first
just in case
this day is not her last

there are smiles
to kiss
and tears

to swallow

not to mention
the forgetting