I am 342 Days Sober

heap of brown eggshells scattered on marble surface in daylight Photo by Klaus Nielsen on Pexels.com

when I move into the studio apartment.
I cannot write, so I bake
chocolate chip cookies,
something to make the place smell like a home.
Here is the secret: butter, not quite melted,
brown sugar, vigorously hand whisked.
Freeze the dough,
split the batch.
Give a friend half.
Friends think the cookies are delicious;
I think the cookies are not poems.
It gets tiresome
knowing how things are made.
I’m not made entirely of mistakes.
I’ve known homes and money,
laughter like honey,
sweet enough to turn me
into a hunter when it was all gone.
Here is a mistake: thinking someone else will save you.
Sometimes I eat all the cookies;
mouth full of want,
door to a dry forest
daring a spark.
When the fire catches
I let it burn
until this exile becomes
the warmest place I know.

Jaime Jacques is an itinerant writer who currently calls Nova Scotia home. Her poetry has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic and Cheat River Review. She is the author of Moon El Salvador and her reporting and creative nonfiction can be found in Salon, NPR, Narratively, and Roads and Kingdoms among others. Find her on Instagram @calamity__jaime.

Appears In

Issue 16

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