Poetry colletced in Bishop’s Geography III. Translated into Chinese by H.C..
last updated: 02/11/2023
In the Waiting Room 🔗
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist’s appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist’s waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited I read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
–“Long Pig,” the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
–Aunt Consuelo’s voice–
not very loud or long.
I wasn’t at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn’t. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I–we–were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you’ll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
–I couldn’t look any higher–
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities–
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts–
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How–I didn’t know any
word for it–how “unlikely”. . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn’t?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
Translated into Chinese by H.C.
在等待室 🔗
在麻省的伍斯特
我陪康斯薇露阿姨
去看牙医
我坐着等待着她
在牙诊所的等待室。
那时候是冬天。天早早地
变暗。等待室里
挤满已长大了的人，
北极跟大衣，
灯还有杂志。
我的阿姨在里头
似乎过了很久
等她的时候我读了
国家地理杂志
（好像是这样没错）还仔细地
研究着上面的照片：
一座火山的内部，
黑色，满是灰烬；
而后喷洒出
一道道火焰脉流。
奥沙和马丁·约翰松
穿着马裤
束带靴，还有木髓帽。
一个死人被吊在杆上
——“肉可食用”，边上写着。
尖头宝宝
被一圈圈细线缠绕；
黑色，裸女人的脖子
被一圈圈硬绳缠绕
像白炽灯的接口。
她们的胸脯瘆人。
我匆忙略过翻了页。
羞臊使我无法停留。
然后我看着封页：
黄色的页缘，日期。
突然，从里面，
传来“欧！”的一声疼痛
——康斯薇露阿姨的声音——
并不响也不长。
我一点儿也不意外；
打一开始我就知道她是
一个傻气、胆小的女人。
我本该感到尴尬，
但没有。令我
大吃一惊的是
那竟是我：
我的声音，在我的口中。
根本无暇思考
我就是我那傻气的阿姨，
我——我们——在坠落，坠落，
我们的眼睛贴在国家地理的
封页上，
1918年，二月。
我对自己说：再过三天
你就七岁了。
我这么说是为了挣脱
这坠落的感觉
旋转，世界遁入
冷的，蓝黑色空间。
但我感觉到：你是一个我，
你是一个伊丽莎白，
你是他们中的一个。
为什么你也该是一个你呢？
我很少敢去看
去想我的存在是什么。
我撇了一眼底下
——不敢往上多看一眼——
灰暗的膝盖，
裤子和裙子和靴子
和许多双不同的手
静止在灯下。
我知道如此奇特的事
从前不曾发生，经后
也不会再有更奇特的了。
为什么我会是我的阿姨，
或是我自己，或任何一人？
是什么样的相似性——
靴子、手、我喉咙里
熟悉的声音，更或是
国家地理杂志
和那些可怕的垂落胸脯——
将我们汇聚
或使我们成为一体？
多么——我真的找不到
任何词语——多么“不可能”……
我怎么会在这里呢，
像他们，又不小心听见
一声痛苦的叫喊，而这叫喊
本该更响更糟却没有？
等待室是明亮的
也很热。它在滑动
在一个巨大的黑色的海浪下，
一个，又一个。
于是我回到了它的体内。
战争开始了。在外面，
在麻省的伍斯特，
是夜晚是泥泞的雪是冷，
也依然是第五天，
在1918年的二月。