跨线桥--埃达.利蒙

那时路显得并不危险，
当我要走到刚栏杆那里时，
伏在我柔软可弯曲的女孩身体上，盯着
冰冷的小溪水。进入一眼湿润的泉，
水会清澈兴奋地流动，鲦鱼
不出声地吐出沙子和淤泥，一直小龙虾
在河滨长长芦苇的投下的阴影里。
我能盯着看几个小时，在每一个潮湿的楔体里
总有新东西--一只 瓶盖，一只男人的黑皮靴，一只蟾蜍。
曾经一次，一只浣熊的尸体在桥下半隐半露，
几个月来慢慢地腐烂着。我会每天都查看他一下，
观察着直到他手上的白骨
完全没了皮，好像向着击到水面的
太阳伸出去，
露出他可爱的五个手指
坚韧地仍然紧握这。我不想
崇拜他，他的死，但我喜欢他的见证，
那感觉多么想一个日常工作
在沙滩上记下他逐渐的变化。
The road wasn’t as hazardous then,
when I’d walk to the steel guardrail,
lean my bendy girl body over, and stare
at the cold creek water. In a wet spring,
the water’d run clear and high, minnows
mouthing the sand and silt, a crawdad
shadowed by the shore’s long reeds.
I could stare for hours, something
always new in each watery wedge—
a bottle top, a man’s black boot, a toad.
Once, a raccoon’s carcass half under
the overpass, half out, slowly decayed
over months. I’d check on him each day,
watching until the white bones of his hand
were totally skinless and seemed to reach
out toward the sun as it hit the water,
showing all five of his sweet tensile fingers
still clinging. I don’t think I worshipped
him, his deadness, but I liked the evidence
of him, how it felt like a job to daily
take note of his shifting into the sand.