偵探
--Sylvia Plath, 羅浩原 譯

那時她正在做什麼,當這事兒
越過七座山的紅色隴畝、藍色山脈爆了出來?
她正在整理茶杯嗎?這很重要
她正站在窗前聽著嗎?
山谷迴盪著火車的尖嘯,猶如活人被鉤子吊掛慘叫

那是個死亡之谷,儘管母牛成群茁壯
她的花園裏,謊言掙開它們濕潤的蛹絲
而殺手的眼睛鼻涕蟲似地斜吊著
無法面對千夫所指,那群自以為是之人
一根根手指正把一個女人捅進牆壁

把一具屍體捅進排放管,接著濃煙升起
這是焚燒歲月的臭味,就在這廚房裡
種種欺瞞釘了滿牆如家庭合照
就是這個男人,瞧他的微笑
是殺人兇器?不,沒死人

這屋子裡根本就沒有屍體
有的是打蠟的味道、絲絨的地毯
有的是陽光,正把玩著它的鋒芒
像個不良少年在紅色的房間中無聊著
任收音機如一位年老的親戚對自己嘮叨著

這事兒來如箭射?來如刀劈?
這事兒像什麼毒藥來著?
一種神經癱瘓劑、痙攣劑?這事兒會電死人嗎?
這是一宗沒有屍體的凶案
肉體根本與此事無涉

這是一宗人間蒸發案
首先是嘴不見了,第二年上就被報了失蹤
它一直就不知滿足
作為懲罰,它被掛在外面,像個褐色的水果
皺縮、脫水

其次是乳房
它們變硬了,成了兩塊白石
流出的乳汁發黃,然後轉藍,變甜,像水
嘴唇倒是一片也不缺,還有兩個小孩
但他們瘦骨嶙峋,而月亮在暗笑

接著是枯木、層層門戶、
充滿母愛的褐色隴畝、整座莊園
我們在空中漫步,華生
此處只剩月亮,遍塗著磷粉
此處只剩一隻樹上的烏鴉。請紀錄下來



The Detective
--Sylvia Plath

What was she doing when it blew in
Over the seven hills, the red furrow, the blue mountain?
Was she arranging cups? It is important.
Was she at the window, listening?
In that valley the train shrieks echo like souls on hooks.

That is the valley of death, though the cows thrive.
In her garden the lies were shaking out their moist silks
And the eyes of the killer moving sluglike and sidelong,
Unable to face the fingers, those egotists.
The fingers were tamping a woman into a wall,

A body into a pipe, and the smoke rising.
This is the smell of years burning, here in the kitchen,
These are the deceits, tacked up like family photographs,
And this is a man, look at his smile,
The death weapon? No one is dead.

There is no body in the house at all.
There is the smell of polish, there are plush carpets.
There is the sunlight, playing its blades,
Bored hoodlum in a red room
Where the wireless talks to itself like an elderly relative.

Did it come like an arrow, did it come like a knife?
Which of the poisons is it?
Which of the nerve-curlers, the convulsors? Did it electrify?
This is a case without a body.
The body does not come into it at all.

It is a case of vaporization.
The mouth first, its absence reported
In the second year. It had been insatiable
And in punishment was hung out like brown fruit
To wrinkle and dry.

The breasts next.
These were harder, two white stones.
The milk came yellow, then blue and sweet as water.
There was no absence of lips, there were two children,
But their bones showed, and the moon smiled.

Then the dry wood, the gates,
The brown motherly furrows, the whole estate.
We walk on air, Watson.
There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus.
There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes.


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