After Seeing Rossetti’s The Day-dream
The garden must have sprung
up around her dress
just this afternoon. She couldn’t
have climbed that far all swoony-
eyed with an open book and flower
in her good hand. She would’ve
snagged each barb on silk,
slingshotting one sandal at a time
down as her father cussed.
No, the garden’s still growing.
She grasps the branches like a horseless
set of reins. Rossetti’s distracted.
He tells her: I’ll give you ten thousand
shades of green to know his name.
The one that’s trapped below
your breath, below the beating.
The one owning the hum and click
of each of your lungs.
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