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Dari Kereta di Connecticut | From a Train in Connecticut

4 November 2012

Dari Kereta di Connecticut

Kapling Bengkel Petrillo, penjajah suku cadang mobil di pinggir kota New Haven
terisi ribuan mobil yang tak begitu tua
namun semuanya rongsokan, berkarat, dengan roda tanpa ban
dan kaca jendela berkatarak
Tak ada jiwa yang tampak, hanya sungai
mengalir pelan dalam lubang-lubang lembut
menabrak satu tepian ke tepian lain
Di kantornya duduklah John Petrillo, cemas pada bobot tubuhnya
saat mendengarkan radio, takut
pemain-pemain bintang tim baseball The Mets tidak berhasil dibujuk bermain lagi
sebelum babak penyisihan pertandingan.

Berabad yang lalu di lokasi kota New Haven sekarang
dua suku Indian, Quinnipiac dan Pequot, meluncurkan sejumlah pertempuran
yang sebenarnya lebih pantas disebut perkelahian dengan kekalahan di pihak suku
     Quinnipiac
yang akhirnya menjual sebagian tanah mereka ke kaum pendatang orang Eropa
hanya demi sekeping ketentraman.
Tak jauh dari tempatnya, pepohonan pinus berderet-deret di atas bukit,
mirip suasana di luar Munich
tempat dimana belum begitu lama diadakan negosiasi perdamaian serupa.
Sulit dibayangkan keadaan di sini yang begitu damai ,
meskipun pepohonan yang merayap itu sebenarnya meniru
kekerasan, penuh dengan kehidupan dan tujuan yang lembab.

Semalam Joe bermimpi, dia membunuh teman lamanya,
bertahun-tahun yang lalu, dan berhasil lolos selama ini.
Ketika bangun, dia ingat dia belum melihat temannya itu
selama beberapa tahun, sejak sang teman pindah ke kota Mystic di Connecticut.
Atau apakah dia bersalah? Siapa tahu
mungkin ada darah di tangannya.
Kini, dalam waktu yang longgar pada dinihari, berhadapan dengan laporan-laporan
     akutansi
yang belum disusun rapi angkanya, dia tak begitu yakin lagi.
Inilah inti masalahnya, bukan bisnisnya atau berat badannya–
dia seakan-akan tidak pernah bisa klop
dengan dirinya sendiri. Setiap kali dia menemukan dirinya sendiri,
selalu kesementaraan, seperti titian di sungai yang sedang pasang. Yang jelas, dia takut.
Silau matahari menerang,
menggerigi benang asap yang timbul dari rokok Brancusi.


From a Train in Connecticut

Petrillo’s Used Auto Parts just outside New Haven
contains about a thousand newish cars
all wrecked, rusting, with tyreless wheels
and cataracted windscreens.
There’s not a soul in sight, just the river
flowing slowly in mild lobes
swapping one bank for another.
In his office sits Joe Petrillo, worried about his weight
and listening to the radio, sweating
on the Mets getting back their stars
in time for the playoffs.

Centuries ago near what became New Haven
the Quinnipiac and the Pequot fought a series of battles
or skirmishes, really, the Quinnipiac coming off second best,
eventually selling their land to some Europeans
in exchange for a peace of sorts.
Nearby, firs serry up a hill, just as near Munich,
where not as long ago there was a similar appeasement.
It’s hard to imagine, it being so peaceful here,
although the creeping greenery is a clear imitation
of violence, full of life and humid intent.

Last night Joe dreamt he’d killed his oldest friend,
years ago, and had been getting away with it all this time.
Awake, he remembers that he has not seen him
for several years now, not since the friend moved to Mystic, Connecticut.
Or was that a mistake? Perhaps
there’s blood on his hands after all.
He can’t be sure, now, in the wide hours
of early morning, unbalanced accounts
before him in a yet to be ordered pile.
This is the problem, not his business or his weight
but that he never seems to coincide
with himself. Whenever he finds himself,
it’s always provisional, like a ford
in a rising river. Most of all he is afraid.
The blinded sun lights up,
serrates his thin Brancusi tube of smoke.

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