吞剑者的情人节

你用那杯马蒂尼征服了我。我看到你
用搅酒棒穿透橄榄的
辣椒红色喉咙，那动作熟练，
细致而又贪婪。一个以
品尝利刃为职业的男人了解他的对手。
那种欢愉。那种咸味。我希望我们有时间，
我说——你制止了我——时间总会有的。
这时他们叫我上台。我看到你嘴巴角度的变换，
当你知道我是谁——
宝藏食道！钢铁喉咙！拉莫·斯瓦米，吞剑者。
我向你保证这只是一次表演，
但它是我从七岁起知道的我唯一一种表演。我记得
妈妈第一次抓到我玩吞黄油刀的把戏：一个
真正的男人可能不哭，但是一个真正的男孩会哭。
她看到我下定决心，建造一个从喉咙到脚趾
贯通的隧道。那样深的黑暗找不到匹配之物，
她警告说。你的微笑是划燃火柴，
希望展开对人心的洞穴探险。
面对人群，看到你苍白的喉咙
让我的喉咙在最糟糕的时候收紧——
当难以捉摸的欲望闪现。是的，你会说，我看到了你
最后一次表演。失去专注，可怜的男人。
真有趣，女人如何造就和毁灭她们的男人，
马蒂尼如何毁灭和成就一段恋情。
最好的魔术师会挂起他们的锯子，
放走他们的鸽子，如果那个合适的女人
及时脱下他们的拘束衣。
如果嘴唇相遇，你喉咙里面隐隐的杜松子酒味道
会和我喉咙里面的日本武士风格的
山茶籽油混合。
我接受的训练就是避免接触，
并不知道僵硬的喉咙对应着
僵硬的心。我准备好了做出反应，
准备好了流血。正如任何炼金术士都知道的，
在喉咙里灌满生铁无法和爱情
相提并论。不要为那些反人类的表演鼓掌。
把我劈成两半吧，时间，时间：最古老的锯子。

作者 / [美国]桑德拉·比斯利
翻译 / 光诸

The Sword Swallower’s Valentine

You had me at that martini. I saw
you thread the olive’s red pimento throat
with your plastic swizzle stick, a deft act
at once delicate and greedy. A man
paid to taste the blade knows his match.
The pleasure. The brine. I wish we had time,
I said—you stopped me—There’s always time.
That’s when they called me to the stage. I saw
your mouth’s angle change as you made a match
of my name and Noted Gullet! Steel Throat!
Ramo Swami, the Sword-Swallowing Man.
I want to assure you it’s just an act,
but since age seven it’s the only act
I know. My mother recalls that first time
she caught my butter-knife trick: a real man
might not cry, but the real boy wept. She saw
my resolve to build a tunnel from throat
to feet. A dark that deep could go unmatched,
she warned. Your smile is the strike of a match,
the hope of an inner spelunking act.
Facing the crowd, the sight of your pale throat
tightens mine at the worst possible time—
that fickle tic of desire. Yeah, I saw
his last show, you’ll say. Lost focus, poor man.
Funny how women make and break their men,
how martinis both break and make a match.
The best magician will hang up his saw,
release his doves, if the right woman acts
to un-straitjacket his body in time.
If lips meet, the hint of gin in your throat
will mingle with camellia in my throat,
same oil used by any samurai man.
I trained against touch once upon a time,
not knowing a rigid pharynx would match
a rigid heart. I’m ready to react,
to bleed. As any alchemist can see,
to fill a throat with raw steel is no match
for love. Don’t clap for these inhuman acts.
Cut me in two. Time, time: the oldest saw.

Sandra Beasley