The Furrow

She holds the plastic bottle

at arm’s length, squinting

at the tiny, black instructions

for how to keep her heart in rhythm.

The notch between her eyes

is a permanent fixture now,

a canyon carved by thirty years

of wondering if the rent would clear.

This morning, brushing my teeth,

I saw the ghost of it in the glass.

A shallow dent in the skin

where the worry has finally

found a place to settle in.