The Forests of Rousseau

His body like a dense shadow broods
over her restless sleep, she shifts
and sighs, within the tide of her sleeping
breath, she worries whether

her heartbeat rivals his sullen resolve,
whether she can sing unscathed within
his seething mass, pulled toward such blazing
light, she has been warned about mirages, the aftermath
of longing defeated. What if

she dresses for rain with galoshes
and an old coat, hoping for eventual sun, perhaps
a sand dune. What if he is all
there is; she is forever thrashing through

his body always murky as sunless
skies prevail. What if she
wanders forever searching upon
disconnected lines and love
taunts grotesquely, her heart

remains weary, she forgets
how daylight feels, its colors
caressing, what love felt like, how
a catch in her throat could steal
her breath away. What if

she grows roots, water flowing darkly
through, and although you might think
she has been replenished, the truth
is that water seeping so far below the earth—

once she cultivated a plant quite alive,
lush even though times were not. Every morning
with great care she watered
the shrub with its random
white bulbs, believing they might
grow old together except

the excess of fluids eventually
drowned the plant which had reminded
her of the forests of Rousseau. She feels
a kinship toward the plant with her daily ritual
of tears and wonders about clichés, the romance

and inevitable truth within, she shifts
aside one sleeve and then another, always
another. He speaks of fallen angels, while
all she sees is the artful dodger with wings
and a cape.