At the Terminal by Patricia Hooper

记得我们怎么样独自乘坐飞机
想象着最糟糕的：我们的飞机下降了，
我们幼小的孩子，独自一人？我要先于你
离开一小时，等着在你的门口接你，
或着你先走，到了，租辆车，
然后在出口处接我。在二者之间，
青虚，我们的生命悬浮的地方
云朵自发堆叠在我们之间：你在地上
我已经出发。不然我站在
坚实的大地上，看着你隐入蓝天--
我的心肝，我的闪耀的鸟！--一道闪电，
一闪而过的翅膀，然后什么都看不见。只有
我们中的一位，每次一人。无论
我转身回到大厅或拉下罩子罩住
明亮的窗子，在倾斜的跑道之上飞奔
演练此刻，愈加近来，此时飞机会
保持在此处或彼处，你就会看见--
或我--大地向后退去，或者向上看
虚无的弧光，炫目的太空。
Remember how we took those separate flights
imagining the worst: our plane gone down,
our children young, alone? I’d leave an hour
before you, wait to meet you at your gate,
or you’d go first, arrive and rent a car,
then meet me at the exit. In between,
blue emptiness, our lives suspended where
clouds stacked themselves between us: you on earth
and I already gone. Or else I’d stand
on solid ground and watch you disappear—
my heart, my shining bird!—a streak of light,
a flash of wing, then nothing. Only one
of us, one at a time. And whether I turned
back to the concourse or pulled down the shade
over the brilliant window, belted in
above the tilting tarmac, I rehearsed
this hour, ever nearer, when the planet
would hold one or the other, and you’d watch—
or I—the earth receding, or look up
into the arc of absence, blinding space.