掸尘 林木译
丽塔·达夫 著
每天都是一片荒原——不见
阴影。比尤拉
在小摆设间很有耐心，
阳光房阳光
怒放，尘暴
随着她的灰布唤醒
黑木的生机。
在她手下卷纹与
饰章愈加
幽暗闪亮。他叫
什么来着，那个
在集市上
摆射击摊位的
傻小子？还有他的吻，
还有那只透明的碗，装着一条明亮的
鱼儿，波光荡漾的
伤口！
不是迈克尔——
是更优雅的名字。每掸尘一下
一次深呼吸，
金丝雀花开。
记忆摇晃：舞会
归来，前门被风
吹开，客厅
落满雪，她急忙
把鱼碗放到炉子上，看着
那冰坠
缓缓融化而他
游向自由。
那是在父亲
把她和她的名字
一并抛弃之前，也是她名字
的含义变成“希望”再变成
“宁静的荒漠”之前。
更是早在阴影与
阳光的同谋，那棵树
出现之前。
莫里斯。
Dusting
By Rita Dove
Every day a wilderness—no
shade in sight. Beulah
patient among knickknacks,
the solarium a rage
of light, a grainstorm
as her gray cloth brings
dark wood to life.
Under her hand scrolls
and crests gleam
darker still. What
was his name, that
silly boy at the fair with
the rifle booth? And his kiss and
the clear bowl with one bright
fish, rippling
wound!
Not Michael—
something finer. Each dust
stroke a deep breath and
the canary in bloom.
Wavery memory: home
from a dance, the front door
blown open and the parlor
in snow, she rushed
the bowl to the stove, watched
as the locket of ice
dissolved and he
swam free.
That was years before
Father gave her up
with her name, years before
her name grew to mean
Promise, then
Desert-in-Peace.
Long before the shadow and
sun’s accomplice, the tree.
Maurice.
