She holds the aspirin bottle to the light

She holds the aspirin bottle to the light.

The plastic rattles in her thin hand.

Between her eyes, the skin gathers

into a notch I’m beginning to understand.

It’s a vertical canyon, a permanent crease

from forty years of squinting at the small print

of bills, and recipes, and the slow release

of things she didn't want to show or hint.

I saw it in the bathroom mirror today.

A ghost of her ghost, a line that won't smooth.

I tried to rub it out, but it’s here to stay,

the hard, unyielding geometry of the truth.