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Cesar Vallejo was pulling Sylvia Plath
out of the oven by her hips,
the Eiffel Tower making a land-bridge
between France and England.
He helped her to the sofa,
she was still in a daze
as you can well imagine.
Her eyes a distant star, maybe Antares,
her frock (which we are not
about to mock) gave her the air
of so many housewives up and down the street.
Cesar got her a cup of coffee
and they talked late into the night
except for interruptions by her children,
who still had a mother
and us, who still had a poet,
but we, of course, dared not intrude.
We stood against a wall
and marveled at their art,
our eyes stuck to theirs with Elmer’s Glue.