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第二部分
第十四章

我们都已是四十来岁的人了，我四十出头，梅芙已经奔五了。我早已习惯于定期前往詹金镇：每个月的第一个星期五，我会搭早班的火车出发，当天晚上就回。通勤的路上，我会把带给梅芙的文件凭证整理好。那个时候我公司的规模已经不小了，我理应每周去和我姐姐过一遍合同与账单，或者至少一个月也该回去两次，但是每次回去都意味着要和思澜吵一架，她说有这时间留着陪孩子不好么。“凯文和小梅还很黏我们”，她总会这样说，“孩子可是一转眼就长大了。”她的话没错，但是我还是不由得踏上回家的路，因为我想回去。我已经很顺着思澜的意了，但是她对此却视若无睹。

那几个月，我和梅芙要共同处理的事务实在太多，我们都把荷兰大宅的事抛在了脑后。我们之所以此刻停在这里，只不过是受回忆驱使罢了，我们在意的并非居住房子里年幼的我们，而是停在范氏街边抽着烟的我们。

“你想没想过有朝一日能重返荷兰大宅？”梅芙问我。

看着正被修剪的草坪，我脑海浮现出了犁和骡子。“要是那栋房子被挂出来卖的话，也许吧。但是让我登门造访的话，拉倒吧。”

梅芙的白发越来越多，这让她看起来比实际年龄更加苍老。“不，我的意思是你的心愿：如果能的话，就你自己，你想不想再进去？就看一看那个地方，看看有什么变化。”

我仿佛看到桑迪和乔瑟琳正在厨房里放声大笑，厨房里蓝色的小桌旁是我正写着作业；正值清晨时分，我的父亲在起居室里点着烟喝咖啡，他把报纸折起来举着阅读；安迪亚走过门厅，她的高跟鞋在大理石地板上发出哒哒的声音；诺玛和布莱特嬉笑着跑上楼梯；梅芙还是个学生模样，她的黑发像毛毯一般盖在她的后背。我用力摇头甩开这个画面，“不想。这不可能。你呢？”

梅芙把头靠回了头枕上。“绝不可能。我跟你说，除非我死了。”

“那得亏没人邀你回去。”光落在了草坪上，整片草坪呈现出了被修剪的宽窄痕迹——深绿色，浅绿色，深绿色。

梅芙转向了窗外。“我忽然在想，我们是什么时候发生了转变呢？”

书名：爱是地狱冥犬

作者：布考斯基

[1]

在清晨的咖啡馆

她盯着每一个可能到手的男人

超过熏肉和鸡蛋

或者晚点儿

超过午餐三明治或

晚餐牛排。

[2]

不要剥光我的爱

你会发现是个模特；

不要剥光我的模特

你会发现

是我的爱。

[3]

当那些

嘴巴像梭鱼

身体像柠檬树

像云

像闪电般的少女

不再敲我的门。

[4]

奶酪的脚

咖啡壶的灵魂

讨厌台球杆的手

眼睛像回形针

我更喜欢红葡萄酒

我在飞机上无聊

我在地震中温顺

我在游行时呕吐

我在下棋、做爱和

关心中牺牲

我在教堂闻到尿

我可以不再阅读

我可以不再睡觉

[5]

整件事就像一只海豹

困于油岩

在下午三点三十六分

被长滩乐队围绕

[6]

不打台球。

想生气就生气，当你发现

轮胎蔫了。

服用维生素，但不举重不跑步。

书名：You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

作者：Charles Bukowski

[1]

the flowers are burning

the rocks are melting

the door is stuck inside my head

it’s one hundred and two degrees in Hollywood

and the messenger stumbles

dropping the last message into a

hole in the earth

400 miles deep.

the movies are worse than ever

and the dead books of dead men read dead.

the white rats run the treadmill.

the bars stink in swampland darkness

as the lonely unfulfill the lonely.

there’s no clarity.

there was never meant to be clarity.

the sun is diminishing, they say.

wait and see.

gravy barks like a dog.

[2]

as the Bomb sits out there in the hands of a

diminishing species

all you want

is me sitting next to you

with popcorn and Dr. Pepper

as those dull celluloid teeth

chew away at

my remains.

书名：Where the Sidewalk Ends

作者：Shel Silverstein

[1]

I am writing these poems

From inside a lion. 

And it’s rather dark in here. 

So please excuse the handwriting

Which may not be too clear. 

But this afternoon by the lion’s cage

I’m afraid I got too near. 

And I’m writing these lines

From inside a lion. 

And it’s rather dark in here.

[2]

The googies are coming, the old people say,

To buy little children and take them away. 

Fifty cents for fat ones. 

Twenty cents for lean ones. 

Fifteen cents for dirty ones. 

Thirty cents for clean ones,

A nickel each for mean ones. 

The googies are coming, and maybe tonight. 

To buy little children and lock them up tight. 

Eighty cents for husky ones. 

Quarter for the weak ones. 

Penny each for noisy ones,

A dollar for the meek ones. 

Forty cents for happy ones. 

Eleven cents for sad ones. 

And, kiddies, when they come to buy. 

It won’t do any good to cry. 

But-just between yourself and I-

They never buy the bad ones!

[3]

May I ask you if you’ve noticed,

May I ask you if you’ve seen

My minnow Minnie

Who was swimmin’

In your Ovaltine?

For you’ve gone and drunk it up, dear. 

And she isn’t in the cup, dear. 

And she’s nowhere to be found, dear. 

Do you think that she has drowned, dear?

look at the mess we’ve made:

two cotton candy hearts

unraveled across the sofa.

[4]

light pink and baby blue never

quite made purple, only

melted sugar and sticky hands,

mismatched colors and

two bodies caught up in the strands.

[5]

months have gone by,

and sometimes I still find

saccharine under my fingernails.

and I hate myself for hoping

that sometimes you do too.

书名：Light Filters In

作者：Caroline Kaufman

[1]

take a model from a magazine

and wear her like a shield.

give yourself time for the glue to dry,

let the eyelashes stick

and the spot cream harden.

remember your skin’s tape

is not double-sided.

[2]

rip yourself apart when you feel

your pixelated skin is failing you.

dig back to the bottom,

desperately trying to find yourself again.

slash the imperfection away.

[3]

right now, I am a rough draft;

I am here to be

revisited and revised.

hard as I try,

I am not the girl poets speak of.

I am not made up of ocean tides

and my heart is not a crystal drum;

it will always be a weapon

more than anything.

I am an incomplete masterpiece,

full of crossed-out words and changes.

no one ever calls the first draft beautiful,

and I will never be the final piece.

go ahead and fight me, I’ll surely let you win,

comment on my body and I’ll make myself grow thin.

you’re digging nails into all the bruises that you kissed,

I’m putty in your hand, but all you do is clench your fist.

[4]

look at the mess we’ve made:

two cotton candy hearts

unraveled across the sofa.

light pink and baby blue never

quite made purple, only

melted sugar and sticky hands,

mismatched colors and

two bodies caught up in the strands.

months have gone by,

and sometimes I still find

saccharine under my fingernails.

and I hate myself for hoping

that sometimes you do too.

书名：Reality Sandwiches

作者：Allen Ginsberg

[1]

The method must be purest meat

and no symbolic dressing,

actual visions & actual prisons

as seen then and now. 

Prisons and visions presented

with rare descriptions

corresponding exactly to those

of Alcatraz and Rose. 

A naked lunch is natural to us,

we eat reality sandwiches.

But allegories are so much lettuce.

Don't hide the madness.

[2]

I'm happy, Kerouac, your madman Allen's

finally made it: discovered a new young cat,

and my imagination of an eternal boy

walks on the streets of San Francisco,

handsome, and meets me in cafeterias

and loves me. Ah don't think I'm sickening.

You're angry at me. For all of my lovers?

It's hard to eat shit, without having visions;

when they have eyes for me it's like Heaven.

书名：Our Numbered Days

作者：Neil Hilborn

[1]

How miraculous that we all

keep our shit together. How miraculous

that no one has a premonition of flames

and tries to open the cabin door. The airline

pilot next to me keeps his eyes closed

during takeoff and landing. He does not

drink anything. I have an orange juice

with no ice. I want to watch the horizon

as it gets farther away. This man

might just be smarter than me, but he is also

flying coach and reading the sports section

while I do crosswords, so he is probably

still smarter than me. Pretension

can look like intelligence if you squint

hard enough or wear glasses. There are,

for some reason, always Buddhist monks

in the Philadelphia airport. Buddhist monks

rewrapping their robes. This is my sixth time

in this airport. My sixth time because of two

different women. I have paid probably

a couple thousand dollars for the privilege.

Five cheesesteaks. Surprisingly good caramel

popcorn. Maybe thirty hours, five just trying

to find outlets. How miraculous that I can go

basically anywhere. How miraculous, the doors,

the wings, the recycled air. How miraculous,

flight is just a fall that never finds the ground.

[2]

No one knows

how he gets them, because rivers can’t walk

to the store or be guidance counselors,

duh. If snow can drift, so can leaves

and dust and responsibilities. You can have

a light dusting of feathers. Snow is a sentient being

that hates when people drive in straight lines. Snow is

migratory. Snow is a dog that wants

all the sidewalks to be covered

in salt. Snow therefore is a happy dog.

Imagine if fire extinguishers were full

of snow. Imagine the fun we could have.

[3]

to hide the knives because you will carve

her name into all of the food in your fridge.

Stop showering. Warmth will remind you

of her. Masturbate in public. Hope someone

catches you. You need to feel vulnerable

in front of anyone else. Try to burn her

clothes. Try to fall in love with strangers.

Try to fall asleep without her: open the windows:

she would have wanted them closed;

turn off the radio: she can’t sleep without

noise—you can’t sleep without noise,

but noise will sound like her whispering

[4]

I am not convinced those are onions.

Onions do not make you cry

like an opera singer. I have to assume,

therefore, that she is an opera singer and that

therefore the plenty around her is about to

disappear; you cannot be an artist

and also know plenty. The jars, the somehow

very ripe fruit, the gold earrings, gone.

All that’s left is the knife and the onion.

The knife, barely indistinguishable from the wall,

barely for now. The way the blade stays

out of focus until it’s called. The way

your life is sharper once it’s gone.

书名：House of Light

作者：Mary Oliver

[1]

I saw the heron

poise

like a branch of white petals

in the swamp,

in the mud that lies

like a glaze,

in the water

that swirls its pale panels

of reflected clouds;

I saw the heron shaking

its damp wings—

and then I felt

an explosion—

a pain—

also a happiness

I can hardly mention

as I slid free—

as I saw the world

through those yellow eyes—

as I stood like that, rippling,

under the mottled sky

of the evening

that was beginning to throw

its dense shadows.

No! said my heart, and drew back.

But my bones knew something wonderful

about the darkness—

and they thrashed in their cords,

they fought, they wanted

to lie down in that silky mash

of the swamp, the sooner

to fly.

[2]

Don’t ask if it was the fire of honey

or the fire of death, don’t ask

if we were determined to live, at last,

with merciful hearts. We sat

among the unforgettable flowers.

We let the white cups cool before

we raised them to our lips.

[3]

cries for three days, in the gray mist.

cries for the north it hopes it can find.

plunges, and comes up with a slapping pickerel.

blinks its red eye.

cries again.

you come every afternoon, and wait to hear it.

you sit a long time, quiet, under the thick pines,

in the silence that follows.

as though it were your own twilight.

as though it were your own vanishing song.

[4]

The ripe, floating caps

of the fly amanita

glow in the pinewoods.

I don’t even think

of the eventual corruption of my body,

but of how quaint and humorous they are,

like a collection of doorknobs,

half-moons,

then a yellow drizzle of flying saucers.

In any case

they won’t hurt me unless

I take them between my lips

and swallow, which I know enough

not to do. Once, in the south,

I had this happen:

the soft rope of a watermoccasin

slid down the red knees

of a mangrove, the hundreds of ribs

housed in their smooth, white

sleeves of muscle moving it

like a happiness

toward the water, where some bubbles

on the surface of that underworld announced

a fatal carelessness. I didn’t

even then move toward the fine point

of the story, but stood in my lonely body

amazed and full of attention as it fell

like a stream of glowing syrup into

the dark water, as death

blurted out of that perfectly arranged mouth.

书名：Dream Work

作者：Mary Oliver

Afterward

I found under my left shoulder

the most curious wound.

As though I had leaned against

some whirring thing,

it bleeds secretly.

Nobody knows its name.

Afterward,

for a reason more right than rational,

I thought of that fat German

in his ill-fitting overcoat

in the woods near Vienna, realizing

that the birds were going farther and farther away, and

no matter how fast he walked

he couldn’t keep up.

How does any of us live in this world?

One thing compensates for another, I suppose.

Sometimes what’s wrong does not hurt at all, but rather

shines like a new moon.

第二部分
第十四章

“行了”，她的母亲终于发话了。“我们也在场。”思澜边给大家拨鸡肉沙拉边打断道。她被晒伤了，原本苍白的皮肤此时呈现暗红色，从她的肩膀到胸口，再到她的脸都是那样，看起来就像是被烫熟了。我们每个人都疲惫不堪。

“你都没问安迪可不可以碰他的脚”，小梅仍然不依不饶地问我。“你也没问他的父母。不用先问问吗？”

我冲她笑了，这个黑头发的小姑娘可是我漂亮的女儿啊。“不用。”

“是不是医学院教过你，该怎么处理呢？”凯文也问我。这两个小孩都没被晒伤。思澜把他们照顾得非常周全，却唯独忘记了自己。

“当然了”，我回答道，言语之中隐隐约约流露着一种庆幸，庆幸在沙滩上扎破脚的不是我儿子。“有一个学期我们有堂课专门教过，要是沙滩上有小男孩的脚扎了根钉子，该怎么拔出来，之后下一个学期，我们还学了有人的喉咙被鱼骨头卡住了该怎么办。”

医学院教会我的其实在于如何做事果决：提炼问题，权衡利弊，继而行动——这都要一气呵成。但话说回来，这些也是房地产生意教会我的道理。所以哪怕我连解剖都没学过，我也会毫不犹豫地拔出安迪脚上的那根钉子。

“你不应该把这件事说得那么轻巧”，我的妻子说道。“你是懂急救的。”

小梅和凯文立时停下了手中的动作，凯文把剥了一半的玉米拿在了手里，小梅也放下了她的叉子。我们都在等着思澜继续说下去。我们望着思澜静静地等待着。她摇了摇头，在大太阳底下暴晒了一下午，她的卷发似乎多少有点褪色。“实话实说，你就是懂。”

“你是个医生”，小梅向我探过身子，直视着我的双眼。“你应该去当医生呀。”小梅非常善于模仿我们，尤其是她模仿的思澜简直惟妙惟肖。

我们的生活水准是我医学院同学加班加点也难以企及的，但是相较于引荐我时思澜能称呼我为医生而言，我们优渥的生活对她来说不值一提。这是我的丈夫，康罗伊医生。实际上她还真这么干过，我希望她不要这样，但是她根本不加理会。我的称谓，几乎是除了我姐姐的事以外，我们吵架的最大根源。

但那天却有所不同，可能是一整天下来她已经筋疲力尽了，晚上上床后，思澜趴在我身上，她的头抵着我的肩膀。“摸摸我的脊柱吧”，她说。

书名：Red Bird

作者：Mary Oliver

[1]

Something came up

out of the dark.

It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.

It wasn’t an animal

    or a flower,

unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,

    a head the size of a cat

but muddy and without ears.

I don’t know what God is.

I don’t know what death is.

But I believe they have between them

    some fervent and necessary arrangement.

[2]

On the first day of snow, when the white curtain of winter

    began to stream down,

the house where I lived grew distant

    and at first it seemed imperative to hurry home.

But later, not much later, I began to see

    that soft snowbound house as I would always remember it,

and I would linger a long time in the pasture,

    turning in circles, staring

at all the crisp, exciting, snow-filled roads

    that led away.

[3]

The way the plovers cry goodbye.

The way the dead fox keeps on looking down the hill

    with open eye.

The way the leaves fall, and then there’s the long wait.

The way someone says: we must never meet again.

The way mold spots the cake,

the way sourness overtakes the cream.

The way the river water rushes by, never to return.

The way the days go by, never to return.

The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.

[4]

Yet maybe the thrush, who sings

by himself, at the edge of the green woods,

to each of us

out of his mortal body, his own feathered limits,

of every estrangement, exile, rejection—their

   death-dealing weight.

And then, so sweetly, of every goodness also to be remembered.

[5]

I am the one

who took your hand

when you offered it to me.

I am the pledge of emptiness

that turned around.

Even the trees smiled.

书名：Swan

作者：Mary Oliver

[1]

in springI

have known

the taste of the lamb

full of milk

and spring grass;

[2]

I think, in my whole life, I have never missed

the full moon

or the slipper of its coming back.

Or, a kiss.

Well, yes, especially a kiss.