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The Portrait

分类: 英语诗歌 
   by Stanley Kunitz

    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.

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