How we try to keep things

I pulled the foil

and it tore,

one inch or maybe more,

right down the middle,

the way foil breaks

when you're careless

or running out of cares.

So I wrapped the food

and made it good

with three layers,

prayers

that somehow three times nothing

equals something,

that enough bad attempts

at least attempt

to make something hold.

The chicken showed through,

the rice did too,

I could see

exactly what

I was trying to hide,

what I couldn't provide—

enough protection,

enough perfection,

just enough.

It doesn't matter,

I told myself,

just leftovers,

just something to be

forgotten or disposed.

But I kept folding,

kept holding

the torn pieces,

kept crimping edges,

kept hedging

my bets against

the inevitable

falling apart.