刘韧译诺奖得主安妮·卡森诗《父亲的旧蓝开衫》

如今它挂在我总坐的那把
厨房椅子的靠背上，就像当年
挂在他总坐的那把厨房椅子的靠背上。

每次进门我都把它穿上，
就像当年他跺掉
靴子上的雪时那样。

我把它穿上，坐在黑暗里。
换作他，不会这样。
寒气从天上的冷月片片削落。

他的法则是秘密。
但我记得自己在哪一刻明白
他正在他的法则里一点点疯下去。

我到时，他站在车道转弯处。
他穿着那件蓝开衫，纽扣一直扣到最上面。
不只因为那是七月炎热的午后，

而是他脸上的神情——
像个小孩子，不知哪个姑妈一大早给他穿戴整齐，
为了一趟远行

要乘寒冷的列车，经过风大的月台，
会坐得笔直，坐在座位边缘，
而那些长手指般的阴影

覆在飞掠而过的干草垛上，
一次次让他受惊，
因为他倒着坐。

Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen chair
where I always sit, as it did
on the back of the kitchen chair where he always sat.

I put it on whenever I come in,
as he did, stamping
the snow from his boots.

I put it on and sit in the dark.
He would not have done this.
Coldness comes paring down from the moonbone in the sky.

His laws were a secret.
But I remember the moment at which I knew
he was going mad inside his laws.

He was standing at the turn of the driveway when I arrived.
He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way to the top.
Not only because it was a hot July afternoon

but the look on his face --
as a small child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the morning
for a long trip

on cold trains and windy platforms
will sit very straight at the edge of his seat
while the shadows like long fingers

over the haystacks that sweep past
keep shocking him
because he is riding backwards.