我们买了一座泥巴和稻草筑成的房子
贼偷了我的缝纫机
和我的绿松石戒指。
他们偷走了你的音乐，和随着你一根手指
匀速降低的银针。
丢了这些东西。我知悉。
我们生了一个小女孩
我从来不让她离开我的怀抱。
夏天夜里，我们坐在月光斑驳的
后门廊上。在雪中
我出去挂上衣服晾，宜人的洁白。
晒衣夹紧紧抓住晾衣绳，
一群家雀，
迎着太阳飞去。像一枚针
我们驾驭着这个旋转的世界，
设法抵达中心，
唱着一首又一首歌
We bought a house made of mud and straw.
Thieves stole my sewing machine
and my turquoise ring.
They stole your music, and the needle
you lowered with one steady finger.
To lose these things. I learned.
We had a little girl
and I never let her out of my arms.
Summer nights we sat on a moon-striped
back porch. Later I hung out
laundry in the snow, glorious whites.
Clothespins clung to the wire,
a flock of house finches,
breasts to the sun. Like a needle
we rode the world as it spun,
working our way to the center,
song by song.
“First House” by Connie Wanek from Rival Gardens. © University of Nebraska Press, 2016. Reprinted with permission.
