You are good at things with sugar and things,
he says to me when I’ve baked this many
of them, left them to cool, balanced plates
on every unbalanceable surface. Before, when
we walked to the burnt-away house,
we didn’t speak. The trouble’s
always in the measuring out—portions spilt
on the table, with one shorter leg. Always
in trying to be precise: a hand will slip
and when things fall they can’t
be undone. He draws in the flour.
In that dark, he tells me earthquakes
are like buttons popping off, that the trouble is in
the tension of our surfaces. Blackened, thumb-sized
the shingle I took from that day of staring
at what wasn’t ours, will keep.
I collect evidence, write lists. I only know
to fix these little hurts: attend to tension—
the most you can do—to not spill out the water.