Risky Shifts

by Elizabeth Burk

I want to tell you a secret before I burst
    like a bubble of hemoglobin,
you who I see from the corner of my face
        while bouncing off the bus from statue
to monument, assuming the attitude. I’ll adjust mine
    if you adjust yours. You’re trying
to control your universe but I’m here too.
        and I want the freedom

to bang against big rocks,
    to spackle over stone bridges, fall
from outer space, long ago slated
        as the next tourist destination.
We’ll spend our honeymoon on the moon, honey,
    a man once said before we crashed,
burned like the Challenger. How should I package
        my presence? I know you want

your world wrapped around a crucifix,
    arms stretched out like Christ trying to keep
his balance standing on slippery soil
        but even beetles and bedbugs need a nest
of their own, although they are often found
    nestled in ours. They may want to luxuriate
in 800 thread-count Egyptian sheets at the Plaza
        and why not, it’s their planet too.