To pull the metal splinter from my palm

要帮我拔出手掌上的小铁刺，

my father recited a story in a low voice.

父亲轻声讲个故事。

I watched his lovely face and not the blade.

我看他耐看的脸，没看刀片。

Before the story ended, he’d removed

故事还没讲完，那根铁刺已经

the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.

被他剔除，原本我还担心我会死。

I can’t remember the tale,

but hear his voice still, a well

那故事我已经不记得，

of dark water, a prayer.

但他的嗓音我还能听见，那是一口

And I recall his hands,

蓄着黑水的井，一个祈祷。

two measures of tenderness

我回想着他的手：

he laid against my face,

他量好的两份温情，

the flames of discipline

轻放在我脸上，

he raised above my head.

他上规矩的火焰，

Had you entered that afternoon

举在我头上方。

you would have thought you saw a man

planting something in a boy’s palm,

如果你那个下午在场，

a silver tear, a tiny flame.

你会以为你看到了一个男人

Had you followed that boy

在一个男孩手掌里种东西，

you would have arrived here,

一颗银泪珠，一支小火苗。

where I bend over my wife’s right hand.

假如你跟着那男孩，

Look how I shave her thumbnail down

你就会到达这里，

so carefully she feels no pain.

看到我在妻子右手上方俯着身。

Watch as I lift the splinter out.

I was seven when my father

看我怎么为她锉短拇指的指甲，

took my hand like this,

很小心，她一点也不痛。

and I did not hold that shard

看着我怎么把刺拉出来。

between my fingers and think,

父亲那样抓住我的手，

Metal that will bury me,

当时我七岁，

christen it Little Assassin,

我没有把那一小片东西

Ore Going Deep for My Heart.

捏在手指间审思：

And I did not lift up my wound and cry,

"这是会埋葬我的铁刺"，

Death visited here!

我没赐予它"小刺客"的名，

I did what a child does

称为"扎入心底的铁"。

when he’s given something to keep.

我没有高举伤口哀号，

I kissed my father.

"死神莅临此处！"

我的反应像每个孩子一样，

得到了一件值得保存的东西。

我亲了我父亲。