英诗汉译：使者

武夷山

使者

作者：Catherine Barnett（美国女诗人，1960年生）

译者：武夷山 ©

我曾试图让自己看上去不像自身

而更像是别人

有归属感的别人，于是我穿上了短裙

在另一番人生中买的短裙，那时我有丈夫

那时我写感谢信，举办宴会，

那时的短裙还有个小兜，

将兜布弄得发黄的指纹污渍

几乎看不出来，没什么好羞愧的

那时我走过一家家住户，掠过一张张脸

他们家门口竖着欢迎牌和“禁止擅入”的牌子。

我曾希望看上去很温顺

或至少是可驯服的，

这样我也能沿着小径散步

然后回家，四仰八叉

躺在另一人身旁，看着

大屏幕电视，直到睡觉时分。

那时我手腕上也有脉管

我读过马斯洛的著作，

他谈了需求层次。

我记得，爱和归属感

属于较基础性的层次，

而金字塔的顶部是超越。

那天夜里我脱去短裙

躺在家里厨房的地板上

在那屋里，多年前一个小伙子和女朋友

在地下室里吸毒过量，这一事实

我试图忘却。

从前屋外有个十字架，

竖在现已死亡的蓝云杉树下

这个地方被遗弃后蓝云杉也死了。

因为我担心，

我忘了关户外的灯。

卤素灯燃得如此滚烫，如此明亮

它一定吓住了帝王蛾

帝王蛾在纱窗上闪亮。

多数帝王蛾宁愿围绕灯光旋转

也不愿交配，而交配是它们命定在此该做的，

有时候它们把自己累得精疲力竭

因为整夜飞翔。这只帝王蛾

伪装成秋叶，其实这只是仲夏时分。

它只有我巴掌那么大。

它神秘费解，惯使花招，

生命短暂

至多能活七天

它等待的样子很迷人

翅膀伸展开，静如一块长满地衣的扁石块。

它的样子使我急欲将我那本马斯洛著作

从地下室抢救出来，并再次研读需求层次说。

在书的插图中，我看见“性”处于需求层次的底部

与饮食、睡眠并列。

我弄不懂，那意思是性是基础性的

还是可有可无的。蛾子在那里舞动

舞动在灯的周围，它似乎将超越需求

置于其他基本需求之上。

帝王蛾没有口器，

它们不吃东西，不发出声音。

第二天早晨，我将这只蛾子埋在

死了的蓝云杉之下，此时有小汽车疾驰而过。

在把土填回浅穴之前

我拍了一张照片，

以证明确实存在这么一个东西

叫帝王蛾。

证明她并不孤单。

其翅膀由色彩斑斓的甲壳质构成

我把蛾翼铺开如落叶

它在土里闪着微光。

原诗如下

Envoy

I was trying to look a little less like myself 

and more like other humans, 

humans who belonged, so I put on a skort.

Purchased in another life, when I had a husband 

 and wrote thank-you notes and held dinner parties,

the skort even had its own little pocket,

and the fingerprint stains yellowing the fabric

were almost invisible, nothing to be ashamed of

as I walked past homes and faces

with their welcome signs and their no-trespassing signs.

I was hoping to look domesticated, 

or at least domesticable, 

that I too could walk the trails

and then return home, stretch out

beside another human and watch something

on a big screen until it was time to sleep. 

I too had veins at my wrist, 

and I'd read Maslow, 

with his hierarchy of needs. 

I remembered that love and belonging 

were pretty basic, and that at the top 

of the pyramid was transcendence.

Late that night I took off the skort 

and lay down on the kitchen floor of a house

where years ago a boy and his girlfriend

overdosed in the basement, a fact 

I try not to remember. 

There used to be a cross staked outside, 

beneath the blue spruce that died 

when the place was abandoned. 

Because I am afraid,

I left the outside light on.

Halogen burns hot, so bright 

it must have stunned the imperial moth

shimmering against the window screen.

Most moths would rather spin around lights 

than mate, which is all they are put here to do,

and sometimes they just tire themselves out 

flying at night. This one was disguised

as an autumn leaf, though it was only midsummer.

Size of my hand.

As much enigma as legerdemain,

very temporary,

at most she would live a week.

Something about the way she waited there, 

wings outstretched, still as a flat lichened stone,

made me want to rescue my copy of Maslow 

from the basement and study the hierarchy again.

In the diagram I saw sex at the very bottom--

along with eating, drinking, sleeping. 

I wondered if that meant it was foundational,

or optional. The moth, vibrating there

in the circle of light, seemed to be choosing

transcendence over other basic needs. 

Imperial moths have no mouthparts,

they don't eat, they make no sound.

In the morning, I buried her 

under the ghost spruce as cars sped by. 

Before I tossed the dirt back 

over the shallow hole, I took a photo, 

to prove there really was such a thing 

as an imperial moth. 

To prove she wasn't alone. 

Wings made of iridescent chitin 

arranged to look like leaf litter, 

in the dirt she glowed a little.

（发表于The American Poetry Review，2024年第53卷第2期）