NICHOLAS    CHRISTOPHER

米兰达在里诺

【美】尼古拉斯·克里斯托弗　　陈子弘 译

寂静房间里我沉睡，周遭是沙砾。
有时在远方海滨死者幻影
要冥思苦想好多个钟头
纠结于他与我的重大问题
以及所有我们曾遗忘的人
在漫漫长夜吞噬我们时
不爱了还要不要切割的问题。

或许他们也并不是幻影。
那时岛上是冬天，冻结的
雪高高堆砌绵延数英里，
像一道海堤阻止访客来临：
待到春天融雪，海滩会淹没，
伪装成幽灵的演员会一一消亡。

“结婚意味着权利减半，义务加倍。”
或像一位朋友在他前妻婚礼上说的：
离婚是舒展开，结婚是紧紧关上。
这两者真的是设想的两条
平行线短暂地相交，
构成矩形——一个牢房。
我每个认识的人都在溺水试图逃离岛子。

有时，那些逝者在乳白的岸边
坐在大理石椅上齐齐摇晃
一致同意那些重大问题
不过是他们竖起绵长白墙
以免在爱中陷得太深太深。

昨夜干涸的寂静里我再一次
梦到那个岛：雪落骤急
在冰下淹死的男人们背诵他们的
分行，那些我前夫巧妙编串的台词。
是的，你看，他们并不是幻影。
但谁能说清我如何来的这荒漠，
正午时分我的灯光全开，电话——
几天没接了——又响了。

译注：
1. 里诺（Reno）美国内华达州的一个城市，拉斯维加斯之外另一个赌城，人们在这里可以更快更容易办理离婚手续。

诗人简介：尼古拉斯·克里斯托弗（Nicholas Christopher，1951- ）美国诗人和小说家。毕业于哈佛大学，师从著名诗人罗伯特·洛威尔和伊丽莎白·毕肖普。他的作品以其超现实主义风格和丰富的意象著称，曾获得多项文学奖项，包括古根海姆基金会奖学金和国家艺术基金会奖项。他曾在多所大学任教，目前是哥伦比亚大学艺术学院写作系的教授，现居纽约市。

NICHOLAS CHRISTOPHER

Miranda in Reno

In a silent room surrounded by sand I sleep.
Sometimes the phantoms of the dead
on the far shore wrestle for hours
with the great questions he and I—
and everyone we had ever forgotten—
abandoned when we fell out of love,
when the long nights appropriated us.

Or maybe they aren’t phantoms.
It’s winter on that island, the frozen
snow is bricked high for miles,
like a seawall to discourage visitors:
in spring it will thaw, the beach will flood,
and the actors masquerading as ghosts will drown.

To marry means to halve one’s rights & double one’s duty.
Or as a friend observed at his ex-wife’s wedding:
divorces open out, marriages close in.
Really both are imaginary lines over which
two briefly parallel lines intersect,
creating a rectangle—a cell.
Everyone I know is drowning trying to escape some island.

Other times, the dead on their milky shore
rock in unison in marble chairs
and agree that the great questions
were so many distractions they erected
like a long white wall to keep themselves
from falling too deeply in love.

Last night in the dry stillness I dreamt
of that island again: the snow fell fast
and under the ice the drowned men recited
their lines, scripted subtly by my former husband.
It’s true, you see, they aren’t phantoms.
But who can say how I came to this desert,
all my lights burning at noon, and the phone—
off the hook for days—ringing again.

              from The New Republic