Amateurs, we gathered mushrooms

我们这些采蘑菇的爱好者，

near shaggy eucalyptus groves

在蓬松的小桉树林旁

which smelled of camphor and the fog-soaked earth.

闻到樟树和雾浸湿泥土的气味。

Chanterelles,puffballs,chicken-of-the-woods,

鸡油菌，尘菌，硫磺菌，

we cooked in wine or butter,

我们用黄油、酒、

beaten eggs or sour cream,

搅匀的鸡蛋或酸奶油烹煮，

half expecting to be

半期待着被一个错

killed by a mistake. "Intense perspiration,"

毒死。“紧张的汗水，”

you said late at night,

你深更半夜说，

quoting the terrifying field guide

引用骇人的野外指南

while we lay tangled in our sheets and heavy limbs,

当时我们缠结地躺在被单中，四肢沉重，

"is the first symptom of attack."

“是毒害的首发症。”

Friends called our aromatic fungi

朋友们把我们的香蘑菇叫做

"liebestoads" and only ate the ones

“爱之死”， 只吃那些

that we most certainly survived.

我们最显然得以幸存的。

Death shook us more than once

死亡不止一次震撼我们

those days and floating back

那些日子，那感觉像是生命

it felt like life. Earth-wet, slithery,

漂浮回来。湿透的泥土，溜滑，

we drifted toward the names of things.

我们漂向事物之名。

Spore prints littered our table

乱丢在桌外的孢子印

like nervous stars. Rotting caps

像游移摇曳的星星。腐坏的帽子

gave off a musky smell of loam.

散发出沃土麝香般的气息。