The milk is too expensive and the light is too bright

The milk is too expensive and the light is too bright,

a buzzing tube of white in the checkout aisle.

She’s checking the receipt to see if it’s right,

and for a second, she forgets how to fake a smile.

There it is—the deep, vertical groove

carved between her eyes by thirty years of 'no.'

It’s the place where the things she can’t improve

settle down and decide they aren't going to go.

A single drop of rain from her hair gets stuck

in that narrow canyon of skin and dry bone.

It’s the physical mark of a lifetime of luck

that always required her to survive it alone.