Past an unchecked spread of candle wax,

Past the junior faculty defaming its new Dean,

Past poets scraping their plates or talking about Tate and Simic,

Past all these:

A woman is lying in bed.

She looks healthy, and dressed.

A translator sits in a chair by her side.

He is soaking his bread in boeuf bourguignonne.

He is singing a song we don’t understand.

He tells us, she is dying.