I am 342 Days Sober

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.