加载中…黛博娜·艾泽( Deborah Ager) 诗选
(2014-05-29 12:12:43)
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Deborah Ager - The Tortoise In
Keystone Heights
When I knew, it was
raining.
Winter in decline. I was
tired.
You in your soaked shirt
diffused
into the western sky bulging
with clouds,
speeding cars a few feet
away—
why would they not slow
down?
Though afternoon, a slip of
moon
busied itself with
rising,
and it had to mean
something.
If only the moon were not
out.
You shoveled the crushed
tortoise
and her eggs off the highway
into the dirt.
Those soft, white
eggs.
This is how I love
you:
drenched with Florida
rain
and looking like
hell,
Florida itself a
hell,
the moonlit rain a rain of
fire.
-----------------------------------------
Deborah Ager -THE CITIES WHERE
I MEET YOU
Let it be Miami, Baltimore, New
York.
Let fruits of the osage-orange
tree crack.
Do you smell their acrid
perfume soiling air?
Let wind shovel the clouds
aside
until they grey the west with
rain.
Let it be the city of love, of
heartache,
of longing. Let rain pelt
me.
Let sidewalks buckle under
you,
and I will ask what is it like
to die.
Let me introduce this
husband
I love. Let me show you this
son
who is not to be. At night
you're here;
the shadows move in the
corners,
and I believe in them like a
god.
This is the dark. This is my
hand
extended to touch your
arm,
passing through your ghostly
body.
===================================
Deborah Ager - Dear
Deborah
They tell me that your
heart
has been found in
Iowa,
pumping along Interstate
35.
Do you want it
back?
When the cold comes
on
this fast, it's Iowa
again—
where pollen
disperses
evenly on the dented
Fords,
where white houses
sag
by the town's corn
silos,
where people in the
houses
sicken on corn
dust.
Auctions sell entire
farms.
It's not the auctions that's
upsetting
but what they sell, the ragged
towel
or the armless doll, for a
dollar.
I hear they've
found
an eye of yours in
Osceola
calling out to your mouth in
Davis City.
That mouth of yours is in the
bar,
the only place left in
town,
slow dancing and
smoking.
It's no wonder you look so
pale.
Ever wish you'd done
more
with your thirty
years?
Seeing you last week I
wonder
if you crave that
sky
filled with the milky
way
or the sight of Amish girls in
blue
at sunset against wheat-colored
prairie grass.
Here, the trees are full of
gossip.
They're waiting to see what
you'll do next.
===========================================
Deborah Ager——Night: San
Francisco
Rain drenches the patio
stones.
All night was spent
waiting
for an earthquake, and
instead
water stains sand with its pink
foam.
Yesterday's steps fill in with
gray crabs.
Baritone of a fog horn. A misty
light
warns tankers, which block the
green
after-sunset flash. My lover's
voice calls
to others in his restless
sleep.
The venetian blinds slice
streetlights,
light coils around my waist and
my lover's neck,
dividing him into
hundredths.
Would these fractions make me
happier?
My hands twist into a
crocodile.
My index finger the tooth that
bites
Gauguin's Tahiti. My thumb is
the head feather
of a California quail crying
chi-ca-go.
Night barely continues. Is this
the building
staying still? Is this hand the
scorpion
that will do us in? A few of
Irving Street's
sycamores will blue the air
come morning.
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