The Fault Line

She’s drifted off in the velvet recliner,

the television muttering about the weather,

but her face refuses to let the day go.

There is a twin-pronged canyon between her eyes,

a sharp eleven etched into the bone

by years of interest rates and utility bills.

It didn't smooth out when she closed her eyes

or when we finished with the filing.

It stays like a scar from a blade

that never quite hit the skin,

just the air she breathes,

keeping her ready for the next thing to break.