making an ikea lamp alone

i always put furniture together backward. 
chair legs up as if in praise. a shoulder-less sofa. 
i get the lamp in its little cardboard coffin. my dark
apartment. i feed the shadows 
spoonfuls of honey. tell them to wait.
get on my knees. remember worship.
all the cathedrals i have turned into rocks.
the stained-glass scab spitting confetti light
onto sunday faces. day buries herself.
moon in the window. still, the pieces
of the lamp like bones on the hardwood floor.
if i am being honest, i do not really read
the directions. i prefer the trial & error
until i don't & i am weeping in the skeleton
of a future light. the lamp was a gift from my father. 
i feel like he was trying to say, "i know
you keep the curtains closed. i know you 
sleep in a pile on the floor." once i got obsessed
with floor beds. saved dozens in an online shopping cart
but never bought them. instead, settled on
a bedframe that took me a year to assemble.
it galloped around my apartment all night
leaving hoof prints for me to clean up.
it is midnight when i finish the lamp. 
we both pant from exhaustion. three bulbs 
glowing white. my triad shadow, a triptych
that follows me all the way to bed. 
i leave the light on all night. the ships don't
hit shore. the gods pull out their hair to make trees.
in a dream, arrives on the porch
with a screwdriver in his hand. he asks,
"did you want my help?" he is just like me.
always puts the ghosts together lungs first.
in the dream i let him in. he takes apart 
all my chairs & leaves the screws on the ground. 
i beg him to stop. he says, "i am helping you
because you never ask for help." i retort,
"neither do you." wake up to the lamp 
standing at the foot my bed. 
bright & terrifying. a fresh almost angel.