Your sleeves are rolled up to the elbows;
your eyes are bluer than ice;
the strong, the overwhelming smell of tar
from your fishnets becomes you
as does your laborer’s tan.
The collar of your blue work shirt
is always, always open,
a couple of buttons undone;
the fisherwomen stare and sigh
and blush at what they find themselves thinking.
Even that girl of thirteen
who pushes a barrow of fish through the streets—
come evening, she wanders
out on the cape
as though she were lost.
Her face is drawn, her arms feel weak,
her eyes are sunken and dull.
She stands there, looking out to sea,
so long, so still, the crabs grow bold,
crawl out, one even climbs
over her foot.
She doesn’t notice its tickling,
much less does she now
reach out a hand to catch it;
the blood is thudding in her head: she’s hurt,
her body aches with craving.
Руки голы выше локтя,
А глаза синей, чем лед.
Едкий, душный запах дегтя,
Как загар, тебе идет.
И всегда, всегда распахнут
Ворот куртки голубой,
И рыбачки только ахнут,
Закрасневшись пред тобой.
Даже девочка, что ходит
В город продавать камсу,
Как потерянная бродит
Вечерами на мысу.
Щеки бледны, руки слабы,
Истомленный взор глубок,
Ноги ей щекочут крабы,
Выползая на песок.
Но она уже не ловит
Их протянутой рукой.
Все сильней биенье крови
В теле, раненном тоской.