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.
BACK