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.
