在着火的屋子里吃早餐 　

在着火的房子里我吃早餐。
你理解：并没有真的房子，并没有真的早餐，
但我真的在这里。

熔化的勺子刮着
熔化的碗。
旁边一个人都没有。

母亲和父亲，
他们去哪儿了？也许
他们去了海边。他们的衣服还挂在衣架上，

他们的碗碟堆在水槽旁边
水槽旁边是柴炉
熏黑的水壶放在炉架上，

每个细节清晰可见、
锡杯和起皱的镜子。
天色明亮无人唱歌、

湖水湛蓝，森林守望。
东边的云层
像黑色的面包一样静静地升起。

我能看到油布上的漩涡、
我能看到玻璃上的瑕疵、
看见上面阳光击打的耀斑。

我看不见自己的手脚
也不知道这是陷阱还是祝福、
发现自己回到了这里，这间房屋的一切

早已结束，
水壶和镜子，勺子和碗
包括我自己的身体

我当时的身体
我现在的身体
当我坐在这张清晨的餐桌前，孤独而幸福、

孩子赤裸的脚踩在烧焦的地板上
(我几乎可以看到）
在我燃烧的衣服里，那薄薄的绿色短裤

和邋遢的黄色T恤
拥着我肉体的燃烧的灰烬，不存在的，
光芒四射的肉体。炽热。

作者 / [加拿大]玛格丽特·阿特伍德
翻译 / 光诸

Morning in the Burned House 　

In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.

The spoon which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.

Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,

their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,

every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,

the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.

I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.

I can’t see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything

in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,

including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,

bare child’s feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts

and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.

Margaret Atwood