S. J. Ghaus

after Intersections, by Anila Qauyyum Agha
 
Ya Allah,
When, at last, I walk through your house,
I will change it.
Break the windows
Defeat the kitchen, where you’ve spent hours
devising with dust. I will walk
barefoot
into your shadows
and stir them up, like a river. Like the water
I’ll pour
from my hands onto your green floors, now
glistening with glass dew
and sabaah. I’ll kick the quilts
into a pile
and throw your cushions at the doors,
which I will unhinge. Is it even your house,
in the end? We are sitting
after all, in the residues of my life. All the motes of it
making a noise, blue-black
as a summer cicada. My dead skin
can’t help but muddy your world. The walls
of which are infinite and cut
with precision. This cannot be
a museum. Dear collaborator,
I mean to say,
you invited me in — my brain
and bone and beating
heart. While you shine in the center
like a constant star,
I toss my orbit. Offer my shadow
and moonlight. Pull
at the clean carpets until
they are marked
with a thousand flighty circles. I don’t belong
here. I do. I will be
a free
and roving atom
in this careful space. I will
be raucous and touch
everything with my love. At the end,
after the last salaam has been whispered
over my shoulder, I will not
be sorry for what mess
I made here. I will be joy
— and you, too.
from the journal POIESIS
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In some ways, to exist in the world is to live in a house not built for us, especially those of us whose identities and histories are deemed transgressive or "too much." So what happens when we decide to really settle in? Sometimes the way to make a home out of a place that feels unwelcoming is to break the walls and let in some light. 

S. J. Ghaus on "Untitled"
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