Ya Allah,     When, at last, I walk through your house,                                                                   I will change it.Break the windows                                          Defeat the kitchen, where you’ve spent hoursdevising with dust. I will walk                                                                           barefootinto your shadows                          and stir them up, like a river. Like the waterI’ll pourfrom my hands onto your green floors, now                                                glistening with glass dewand sabaah. I’ll kick the quiltsinto a pile                      and throw your cushions at the doors,which I will unhinge. Is it even your house,                      in the end? We are sittingafter all, in the residues of my life. All the motes of itmaking a noise, blue-black                       as a summer cicada. My dead skincan’t help but muddy your world. The walls                        of which are infinite and cut                                              with precision. This cannot bea museum. Dear collaborator,I mean to say,                        you invited me in — my brain                                        and bone and beatingheart. While you shine in the center                        like a constant star,I toss my orbit. Offer my shadow                    and moonlight. Pullat the clean carpets until                                                they are markedwith a thousand flighty circles. I don’t belong                                                here. I do. I will bea freeand roving atom                                            in this careful space. I willbe raucous and toucheverything with my love. At the end,                         after the last salaam has been whisperedover my shoulder, I will not                        be sorry for what messI made here.         I will be joy                     — and you, too.