你,马丁医生
你,马丁医生,散步
从早餐到疯狂。八月末,
我跑过消毒的隧道
那里行尸走肉仍在谈论
用他们的白骨反抗
疗效。我是夏日酒店的女王
或死亡草茎上大笑的
蜜蜂。我们断续地
站成一列,等他们
开门,在晚餐冰冻的门前
点数我们。说暗号
我们穿着微笑的罩衫挪向
肉汤。我们成排咀嚼,餐碟
像学校里的粉笔划擦
并呜咽。没有刀
来割断你的喉咙。整个早晨
我鹿皮鞋。起先我两手
空空,放开那些曾经
劳作的生命。现在我学着
抓回它们,每根愤怒的手指命令
我修理明天就坏掉的
东西。当然,我爱你;
你倚着塑料天穹,
我们街区的上帝,所有狐狸的王子。
国王破碎的王冠
是新的。你的第三只眼
在我们中间穿梭,照亮孤立的箱子
我们在里面入睡或哭泣。
我们是一群大孩子
在这里。在最好的病房里
我长得最高。你的生意是人,
你造访疯人院,一只神谕的
眼睛在我们的巢中。外面廊中
对讲机通告你。狡猾的孩子拽着你
你扭动,他们倒下
像霜冻中生命的洪流。
我们着魔地自言自语,
吵闹而孤独。我是我所有被遗忘的
罪孽的女王。我仍在迷失?
我一度美丽。现在我是我自己,
数着沉默的架子上等待的
这排和那排鹿皮鞋。
You, Doctor Martin
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf. |