Sylvia stretches her skin to fit

someone else’s bones—

her poems not yet her own.

George Starbuck, Syl, and I,

trinity of the master poet’s class,

drink martinis, chow potato chips

at the Ritz, until slightly blitzed.

Drinks making us more real,

we talk suicide until laughter

tears from our eyes.

Then we bunch into my car

for the Waldorf Cafeteria's

seventy-cent dinner,

none of us having a better

or demanding home life to return to.

I implore Sylvia to push herself,

pluck the drum of her heart until it bleeds.

Sometimes I think Lowell praises Sylvia too much,

or maybe he just sees something

in her language that I cannot.