经典的英文简单诗歌赏析

Making a Fist For the first time， on the road north of Tampico， I felt the life sliding out of me， a drum in the desert， harder and harder to hear. I was seven， I lay in the car watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass. My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin. "How do you know if you are going to die?" I begged my mother. We had been traveling for days. With strange confidence she answered， "When you can no longer make a fist." Years later I smile to think of that journey， the borders we must cross separately， stamped with our unanswerable woes. I who did not die， who am still living， still lying in the backseat behind all my questions， clenching and opening one small hand. Man and Wife Tamed by Miltown， we lie on Mother's bed; the rising sun in war paint dyes us red; in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine， abandoned， almost Dionysian. At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street， blossoms on our magnolia ignite the morning with their murderous five days' white. All night I've held your hand， as if you had a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad its hackneyed speech， its homicidal eye and dragged me home alive. . . .Oh my Petite， clearest of all God's creatures， still all air and nerve： you were in our twenties， and I， once hand on glass and heart in mouth， outdrank the Rahvs in the heat of Greenwich Village， fainting at your feet too boiled and shy and poker-faced to make a pass， while the shrill verve of your invective scorched the traditional South. Now twelve years later， you turn your back. Sleepless， you hold your pillow to your hollows like a child; your old-fashioned tirade loving， rapid， merciless breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head. Mama, Come Back Mama， come back. Why did you leave now that I am learning you? The landlady next door how she apologizes for my rough brown skin to her tenant from Hong Kong as if I were her daughter， as if she were you. How do I say I miss you your scolding your presence your roast loin of pork more succulent， more tender than any hotel chef's? The fur coat you wanted making you look like a polar bear and the mink-trimmed coat I once surprised you on Christmas morning. Mama， how you said "importment" for important， your gold tooth flashing an insecurity you dared not bare， wanting recognition simply as eating noodles and riding in a motor car to the supermarket the movie theater adorned in your gold and jade as if all your jewelry confirmed your identity a Chinese woman in America. How you said "you better" always your last words glazed through your dark eyes following me fast as you could one November evening in New York City how I thought "Hello， Dolly!" showed you an America you never saw. How your fear of being alone kept me dutiful in body resentful in mind. How my fear of being single kept me from moving out. How I begged your forgiveness after that one big fight how I wasn't wrong but needed you to love me as warmly as you hugged strangers.