Two A.M. Precision

Two a.m. The overhead light won't dim.

I rewrap containers, fold the foil—

corner to corner, crease to crease.

Each ridge catches light, precise and thin.

You said I don't hear you right.

I heard you. Every word that night.

I tear another sheet and fold it tight,

fold it smaller, try to get it right

because the first fold wasn't quite

the way to say what I meant to say.

The light keeps finding every line I make.

Silver on silver. This is control.

Small control. The only kind

that fits at 2 a.m. when everything

is breaking, when your voice

still hangs in the kitchen

like something I can't fold away.

I start again.

Could do this forever.