玛利林•赫克著（美当代诗人），欧阳荐枫译

首先是八月：一年之前
从圣多•吉尔特大街，我们驶向
那未看清方向的
神秘的房子，希望打开
一扇门

然后我停留，你离开
在分别的岔路口
我潜心工作
你开始你新的游戏

那时节，在生锈的锁内
我转动铁钥匙
( 它转圈子，像侦探小说的线索
藏在一个已盖邮戳的马尼拉信封内

或者在未做记号的别处)
正午炎热
你站在我身后
颤抖打着瞌睡
暗示我们的行程。二匹马

在街道另一边的茅屋顶上啃着青草
一只是斑驳的灰色，一只白色
你直到转身才相信
它们正如我所说的，已经老了 

走过昏暗的厨房，可以发现
在壁炉两侧上的书架上
魏伦•保罗，伊兹•詹姆斯布坎躺在那里
平静地从地铁里转出

通向拱道，然后是布满灰尘的楼梯口
再向上陡峭地延伸。到达白色房内
那里立着镀白的铜床。阳光透过盖满树叶的窗口
照在你脸上。

“你非常棒。”然后
我们在米黄的床单上
开始那个夜晚的自我拯救
格勒偌布尔小酒馆的木桌

在窗下静静躺着
但一切都已过去
那是你返回时八月的
最后一周，一趟晚点的公共汽车上
我们筹划未来

你身着短装
新理的秀发在风中飘舞
像晒黑的水手
带着似曾相识的

奥登奔腾的伤感的脉搏
我走向你，拉普兰人
你姗姗而来，并且偎依我的臂弯。

在一个陌生驿站，谁会关心这些邂逅？ 
拉普兰人面向米莱吹气如兰
当我们徒步旅行到迷失的空隙，你转身
离开圣多•吉尔特

在那里我们拥有十年的友谊
然后是一些新的事情
接二连三发生

每一个夜晚在白铜床上
所发生的事情
你或者我所说出的和解的话
还未及告知对方
就已经过去很长一段时间

然后一只知更鸟告知
蓝色的早晨就是那些
我们声称能够拥有并且持久的东西
比如一幢房子
那里我们可以看清

我们破旧而疲乏的自身
现在，我们必须重新工作
傍晚爬上对面的瓦屋，蓝色

依旧潮红 
已经有一周
自从你离开到首都，成为一个那里的女儿
(但就波恩而言，我与你同是来自北方。)

我煮一些你不喜欢的食物
有时我沉入睡眠，整个上午任凭书打开
当我清醒
有时我渴望你整个夜晚都在普罗旺撕

或者是一个语言的大夫，或者是我所能实现的愿望
我或早或迟的散步像韵脚一样
标明一天的尺寸

（我没有什么痛恨 ——或许我不喜欢
脂肪在大腿上沉积 
——就像痛恨必须原位不动地等待那样）

尽管孤独的一天逼得太紧
或者有时睡得歪歪斜斜
我已经知道一年前我所不知的
它矫正一天尺寸
拥有确信，和永久的惊奇

《玛里琳黑客诗选》w.w. 诺顿公司1994年出版。

附原文：

For K. J., Leaving and Coming Back
Marilyn Hacker
August First: it was a year ago
we drove down from St.-Guilhem-le-Désert
to open the house in St. Guiraud

rented unseen. I'd stay; you'd go; that's where
our paths diverged. I'd settle down to work,
you'd start the next month of your Wanderjahr.

I turned the iron key in the rusted lock
(it came, like a detective-story clue,
in a manila envelope, postmarked

elsewhere, unmarked otherwise) while you
stood behind me in the midday heat.
Somnolent shudders marked our progress. Two

horses grazed on a roof across the street.
You didn't believe me until you turned around.
They were both old, one mottled gray, one white.

Past the kitchen's russet dark, we found
bookshelves on both sides of the fireplace:
Verlaine, L'Étranger, Notes from the Underground.

Through an archway, a fresh-plastered staircase
led steeply upward. In a white room stood
a white-clad brass bed. Sunlight in your face

came from the tree-filled window. "You did good."
We laid crisp sheets we would inaugurate
that night, rescued from the grenier a wooden

table we put under the window. Date 
our homes from that one, to which you returned
the last week of August, on a late

bus, in shorts, like a crew-cut, sunburned
bidasse. Sunburned, in shorts, a new haircut,
with Auden and a racing pulse I'd earned

by "not being sentimental about 
you," I sprinted to "La Populaire."
You walked into my arms when you got out.

At a two minute bus stop, who would care?
"La Populaire" puffed onward to Millau
while we hiked up to the hiatus where

we'd left ourselves when you left St. Guiraud 
after an unambiguous decade
of friendship, and some months of something new.

A long week before either of us said
a compromising word acknowledging
what happened every night in the brass bed

and every bird-heralded blue morning
was something we could claim and keep and use;
was, like the house, a place where we could bring

our road-worn, weary selves.
Now, we've a pause
in a year we wouldn't have wagered on.
Dusk climbs the tiled roof opposite; the blue's

still sun-soaked; it's a week now since you've gone
to be a daughter in the capital.
(I came north with you as far as Beaune.)

I cook things you don't like. Sometimes I fall
asleep, book open, one A.M., sometimes
I long for you all night in Provencal

or langue d'oc, or wish I could, when I'm 
too much awake. My early walk, my late
walk mark the day's measures like rhyme.

(There's nothing I hate---perhaps I hate
the adipose deposits on my thighs
---as much as having to stay put and wait!)

Although a day alone cuts tight or lies
too limp sometimes, I know what I didn't know
a year ago, that makes it the right size:
owned certainty; perpetual surprise.

From Selected Poems 1965-1990 by Marilyn Hacker, published by W. W. Norton, Inc. Copyright © 1994 Marilyn Hacker.