The Portrait
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes.
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning
（Stanley Kunitz）
肖像
母亲永远也不能原谅父亲
自杀，
尤其还是在
一个公园里，
在那样一个不合适的时间，
那个我即将出生的春天。
她把父亲的名字
锁在她最隐蔽的储物柜里。
她不会放他出来的，
尽管我能听到他在柜子里砰砰作响。
当有一天我从阁楼上下来，
手里拿着一幅粉彩画，
画上是一个阔嘴的陌生人，
留着好看的胡子，
一双深棕色的冷静的眼睛，
她一句话也没说
就把画撕成了碎片，
再狠狠地扇了我一巴掌。
我六十四岁了，
还能感觉到我的脸颊
在发烫。
（Stanley Kunitz，xmj译）
by Zhiyong Jing.
