The Line

She told me about the illness on the phone.

I heard the words but what I kept

was the wrinkle—that vertical line

between her eyebrows deepening

with each detail, appearing, disappearing,

appearing again like something

breathing in her face.

A groove that fills with shadow

when she's concentrating on something

frightening. I haven't seen her in months.

I've never noticed this before.

She kept talking. The wrinkle kept working

like a muscle doing its job

without her knowing. When she hangs up

it's still there—etched in my memory

darker than it probably is,

the map of what she's carrying,

aging faster than the rest of her face.

I'm still looking at it

even though I can't see her anymore.