The Line That Stayed

She called to say nothing was wrong.

Four minutes. The weather came up twice.

I said yes to the sleep question,

yes to the food—the usual price

of the call. She laughed, and in

the pause before the laugh I heard

that line between her brows,

the vertical, the word

she never says pressed into skin

above her nose—it came

when I was twelve and hasn't left.

I couldn't tell you the name

of what put it there. She said

well, okay then. I said okay.

Outside, the last gray light

of a short November day

just going.