Mark Strand, The Mailman

THE MAILMAN

It is midnight.
He comes up the walk
and knocks at the door.
I rush to greet him.
He stands there weeping,
shaking a letter at me.
He tells me it contains
terrible personal news.
He falls to his knees.
"Forgive me! Forgive me!" he pleads.

I ask him inside.
He wipes his eyes.
His dark blue suit
is like an inkstain
on my crimson couch.
Helpless, nervous, small,
he curls up like a ball
and sleeps while I compose
more letters to myself
in the same vein:

"You shall live
by inflicting pain.
You shall forgive."

這是午夜。
他走上人行道
並且敲門。
我趕忙去招呼他。
他站在那哭泣
對我顫抖著一封信。
他告訴我它內含
可怕的私人訊息。
他跌跪他的膝蓋。
「原諒我！原諒我！」他懇求。

我請他進來。
他抹拭他的雙眼。
他暗藍色的制服
像一塊墨漬
在我深紅色的沙發。
無助的，不安的，微小的，
他蜷曲得像個球
並睡著，當我以
同樣的心境撰寫
更多的信給自己：

「你當以
施予痛苦而活。
你當原諒。」

畫皮版

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