致回到他妻子身邊的我的情人

The Great Pretender

 International Lampoon

The Platters/Mary Ford 

00:00/02:40

她很警覺。

她小心為你熔化

然後由你的童年、由你愛玩的

一百顆彈珠她鑄成自己。

她從來都警覺，親愛的。

她其實，是精美的。

沉悶二月中的煙火

而且真實得像鐵罐。

面對現實吧，我向來是一時的。

一種奢侈。港灣里一條鮮紅的小船。

我頭髮像車窗上揚起的煙。

過季的小簾蛤。

她不止這些。她是你不得不有的，

使你實幹使你成長如熱帶生命。

這絕不是做實驗。她就是和諧。

她為那小船看管槳和槳架，

早餐時把野花擺在窗檯，

中午坐在陶工的旋盤邊，

月光下展出三個孩子，三個

米開朗琪羅筆下的天使，

做這件事時她雙腿伸展

在禮拜堂、在糟糕的季節。

如果你抬眼看，孩子們就在那兒

像脆弱的氣球靠在天花板上。

晚飯後她還把每一個

都抱過門廳，他們各懷心思，

兩腿抗議，個人對個人，

她在一支歌和他們的小睡眠後臉頰泛紅。

我把你的心還你。

我准許你——

獲得她體內在污穢中

怒顫的保險絲，她體內的淫婦

和她創傷的掩埋——

那紅色小創傷的活活掩埋——

獲得她肋下搖曳的暗火，

她左手脈搏中等著的酩酊水手，

獲得那母親的膝蓋，長筒襪，

吊襪帶，和那叫喚——

那好奇的叫喚

當有一天你埋進手臂和乳房

拉扯她頭髮上的橘色絲帶

並回應那叫喚，那好奇的叫喚時。

她如此赤裸而獨特。

她是你自身和你夢想之總和。

把她當紀念碑去攀爬吧，一步一步。

她是穩固的。

至於我，我是一幅水彩畫。

我洗掉了。

——《致回到他妻子身邊的我的情人》

【美國】安妮·塞克斯頓

張逸旻 譯

She is all there.

She was melted carefully down for you

and cast up from your childhood,

cast up from your one hundred favouriteaggies.

She has always been there, my darling.

She is, in fact, exquisite.

Fireworks in the dull middle of February

and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let"s face it, I have been momentary.

A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.

My hair rising like smoke from the carwindow.

Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have tohave,

has grown you your practical your tropicalgrowth.

This is not an experiment. She is allharmony.

She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window atbreakfast,

sat by the potter"s wheel at midday,

set forth three children under the moon,

three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out

in the terrible months in the chapel.

If you glance up, the children are there

like delicate balloons resting on theceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall

after supper, their heads privately bent,

two legs protesting, person to person

her face flushed with a song and their littlesleep.

I give you back your heart.

I give you permission—

for the fuse inside her, throbbing

angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her

and the burying of her wound—

for the burying of her small red wound alive—

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,

for the drunken sailor who waits in her leftpulse,

for the mother"s knee, for the stockings,

for the garter belt, for the call—

the curious call

when you will burrow in arms and breasts

and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair

and answer the call, the curious call.

She is so naked and singular.

She is the sum of yourself and your dream.

Climb her like a monument, step after step.

She is solid.

As for me, I am a watercolor.

I wash off.

For My Lover, Returning To His Wife

by Anne Sexton (American)

Clara Adolphs,High Noon. 2012

2018.12.15

今天是2018年我們一起走過的第349天

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