诗选|顾爱玲|英中对照

《飞地》-第六辑-孤独与狂欢（2014）

注：本期微信推荐诗人以下所有作品均刊载于《飞地》-第六辑-“视野”栏目。

|顾爱玲诗选|

Poetry by Eleanor Goodman

trans. Liu Juwen （刘巨文 译）

Boy

They have the white sheet

stretched on the ground for him

before they lay the body across.

Too much, too much!

this faded pale boy. His ribs

are dark shadows down his chest,

each bone figured in his jaw, temples,

his tiny wrinkled feet.

The hands that cradle him now

must feel as though they are empty.

This one will rest, and more will come

to feed the earth with the rich

dark marrow of their bones.

They are the bitter progeny

of a barren landscape,

nurtured by the thin milk of the hills

until there is nothing left.

The dregs we drink with our wine;

the gristle of meat we spit on our plates.

男孩

他们把这白色的床单

为他在地上铺开

在他们放上他的身体之前。

够了，够了！

这枯萎苍白的男孩。他的肋骨

是沿胸而下的暗影，

每一块骨头都显露在他的下巴，太阳穴，

他小小的起皱的双脚里。

现在抱起他的手

必定感到好像它们是空的。

这一个将安息，还有更多的男孩

会用他们骨头丰饶的

黑暗骨髓滋养大地。

他们是贫瘠风景的

辛酸子孙，

被山丘稀薄的牛奶养育

直到那里荡然无存。

这些渣滓，我们就着我们的酒饮下；

这些肉软骨，我们在我们的碟子里吐出。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

Ancestry

My father

whose first memory is flying

from his mother`s hands

out the second story window

caught by a neighbor

below on the Niederstrasse

taught me to pick

up pennies for luck—

at seventy he still bends

on bad knees for coins.

Oma leapt after

from that burning house

to escape Berlin

and the bombfire

sprayed by the country they fled to

through slogs of hunger

and the unwelcoming Alps—

for years she kept boiled eggs

and a stub of sausage

in the pocket of her roseˉscentedapron

so the children wouldn`t

go hungry again. Four wars later

none of which I`ve seen

I winch out nickels wedged

between bricks in Harvard Square

and the homeless men with wired bodies

under layers of sweatshirts in August

watch me in my silk scarf and heels

and once one asked me

where the hell

I`m coming from?

祖辈

我父亲

最早的记忆是

从他母亲的手中

飞出二楼的窗户

被下面

尼德街上一个邻居接住

教我为了好运

要捡起分币——

七十岁，他还弯腰

撑着疼痛的膝盖捡硬币。

奶奶随后

跳出那燃烧的房子

逃离柏林

和他们逃往国家撒下的

炸弹火焰

忍受饥饿的煎熬

躲进荒凉的阿尔卑斯山——

好多年，她都在散发着玫瑰香气的围裙口袋里

装几个煮鸡蛋

和一截香肠

这样孩子们就不会

再挨饿。后来的四场战争

我没看到一场

在哈佛广场的砖缝儿中

我拔出嵌在里面的镍币

而八月层层运动衫下

身体躁动的流浪汉们

盯着我披着丝巾，踩着高跟鞋

一度有个流浪汉问我

你到底从哪儿

冒出来的？

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

How Cancer is a Reminder of Other Pain

After her coma my mother

lost her molars.

Oncological nurses

couldn`t care less about teeth, she said,

and I wasn`t there. Soft gaping gums

and a wound for a breast.

When I was twelve

she stayed in bed for days,

in mourning for her marriage.

I brought her trays

of bouillon and crackers

she didn`t eat.

We tried to understand

with the small brutality of children—

studying her dissolution

like homework.

We left each day feigning normalcy

and each night crept past her room,

fearing the oppression of her voice,

while our father counted us

among the casualties.

We cannot save each other.

Now I look for lost things

never finding what is mine,

what is not.

癌症如何提醒还有其他痛苦

苏醒之后，我的妈妈

掉光了所有臼齿。

肿瘤学护士们

不在乎牙，她说，

我不在场。柔软开洞的牙龈

和乳房切除的创口。

我十二岁时

她在床上躺了好多天，

哀叹她的婚姻。

我给她端来

肉汤和脆饼干

她不吃。

我们尽力理解

带着孩子们小小的残忍——

研究她的瓦解

就像做家庭作业。

我们每天离开假装正常

每夜小心走过她的房间，

害怕她声音的压抑，

而我们的父亲把我们

当作牺牲品。

我们不能拯救彼此。

现在我寻找失去的东西

从来没找到什么是我的，

什么不是。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

Les Restes

My mother`s voice drifts down the hallway.

She`s talking to herself again,

sorting through the old papers

one page at a time. This afternoon

in the garden of her father`s house,

she will be thinking of the work that mustbe done,

the clearing of rooms, emptying of closetsand cupboards,

decisions of what to give away and what todiscard—

and I will be thinking of her

and of the cleaning I will someday do

of her things, the remnants of her life,

these objects unconvincing in the absence

of their owner.

Yes, to look at things and see them as theyare,

not as we would have them be.

The sound of my mother, finally,

calling from her room down the hallway,

saying it is time for us to go now, it istime

to put on our shoes and raincoats.

遗物

我妈妈的声音沿走廊飘来。

她又在自言自语，

细细翻检

整理故纸堆。这个下午

在她父亲房子的花园，

她将想着需要完成的工作，

收拾房间，清空衣柜和碗橱，

决定什么送人，什么丢掉——

我也会想起她

想到哪一天我也要清理

她的东西，她生活的残迹，

这些没了主人

不详实的东西。

是的，看待这些东西，按它们之所是，

而不是我们希望的那样。

我妈妈的声音，终于，

沿走廊从她的房间传出，

说现在我们该走了，我们该

穿上鞋子和雨衣。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

Wanting Out

When Lorraine loses her hair

and the energy to love,

her husband leaves her for someone

who doesn`t cough up blood in thenight.

He leaves behind the kids and a few oldfriends,

their new evasive gazes.

She is a wave reflecting off a swimmingpool`s edge.

And all the wasted worry of last year`s

trip to the beach,her thighs fat wedges

in a bathing suit, the kids` misbehavior

and the sting of sunburn spreading

across her freckled shoulders. And on thephone

with her sister, no confession of fear,

of bone fragility and the bruises.

Hospital trays and permanent lights like aprison cell

while outside a night guard chuckles

at a sitcomand eats grapes.

The children visit. Life continues.

We disturb it and add tubes. Friends sayhope

is an unpredictable elixir—

they offer ginseng, Essiac, God, Brazilianherbs.

But Lorraine says no

to mechanized breath, no

to priests and specialists, to catheters,to drugs,

no to someone else`s blood.

She says no to life without life.

Now what`s left is the letting go

of what we think she should have said.

解脱

当罗琳失去她的头发

和爱的能力，

她的丈夫抛弃了她

去找某个夜里不会咳血的人。

他丢下孩子和几个老朋友，

他们不同往常躲闪的目光。

她是游泳池边反射出的一道波纹。

所有无用的担心：去年

海滩的旅行，她大腿的肥肉

塞进一件泳衣，孩子们的淘气

和满是雀斑肩膀的

晒伤刺痛。还有她和妹妹

电话里的交谈，没有吐露恐惧，

骨头的脆弱和那些瘀伤。

医院的托盘和长明灯像一间牢房

而外面一个夜班保安

看着肥皂剧轻笑，吃葡萄。

孩子们来探望。生命继续。

我们打扰了它还插上了管子。朋友们说希望

是无法预料的长生药——

他们建议人参、加拿大护士茶、上帝和巴西草药。

但罗琳对

呼吸机说不，对

牧师和专科医生，导尿管和药说不

对输别人的血说不。

她对没有生命的生命说不。

现在剩下的就是放弃

放弃我们想她本该说的话。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

To an old farmer

Under the cover of late

autumn dusk I walked

into your fields

and broke the stems

of six yellow apples

off a single bough.

I tried to leave all

the leaves. But so much

has already fallen,

too many of your apples

are lying to rot back

to the roots, half-eaten

by animals that know

safety only in darkness.

I saw the light on

in the kitchen

and wondered

if you sat watching

through the night-opaque pane

or were already asleep.

Each day a bit of strength

seeps away, back to the roots.

I stole your apples,

six sweet from the tree.

Forgive me—I knew

then as I know now

the fruit is not ours to reap.

给一位老农场主

在晚秋薄暮的

掩护下我走进

你的田地

折断六个黄苹果

的果柄

从一根孤零零的粗枝上。

我尽力留下所有的

树叶。但掉落的

太多了，

你有太多苹果

躺在地上腐烂返回

根部，没有被

懂得只有在黑暗中

才安全的动物吃光。

我看到厨房里的

灯亮着

猜想

你是不是坐着

在透过夜色模糊的窗玻璃守望

还是已经睡着。

每天力量一点点

渗走，返回根部。

我偷了你的苹果，

六份这棵树上的甜蜜。

原谅我——我那时

已懂得，就像我现在懂得

这果实不属于收获的我们。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

In Praise of Dumplings

Chopping Chinese leeks,

my eyes, back-sighted, blur.

The cold cut of your voice

saying the dice should be finer

or the flavors won`t marry.

You always did

wield the knife better.

You formed the dough

as your grandmother did

in her outdoor kitchen,

the flies like children

buzzing at her elbows,

the dofu fermenting in a pail,

the bamboo cut, coming up again.

You rolled, I folded,

our cross-purposes

for once synchronized.

In the pungency of white pepper,

the sting of ginger and scallion,

I salt and boil the water,

drop dumplings into the sea.

You`d scoop each out with a spoon

translucent, vulnerable

as shelled oysters,

your hands unflinching in the steam.

I remember those fingers

on my instep. Little Bodhisattva feet,

but all these calluses!

You thought I was careless,

but I cared beyond reason,

stopped to question devotion

too late to salvage a shared life.

Now I make

the dumplings alone,

as I like them,

quiet in this quiet house.

赞美饺子

剁着韭菜，

我的眼睛，回望，模糊不清。

你声音冰冷的切割

说菜丁儿要剁得更细

否则味道不调和。

你确实总比我

更知道如何用刀。

你揉面

像你奶奶那样

在她的露天厨房，

苍蝇像孩子们一样

在她的肘边嗡嗡叫，

豆腐在桶里发酵，

竹茬，又在长起。

你擀皮，我包，

我们的争执

只有这时才弥合。

在白胡椒的辛辣

和葱姜的刺鼻气味中，

我放盐烧开水，

把饺子下到海中。

你用勺子舀出每一个饺子

半透明，脆弱，

就像剥壳的牡蛎，

你的手伸进热气毫不退缩。

我记得那些抚摸

我脚背的手指。小菩萨的脚，

可惜都是茧子！

你认为我不用心，

但我却如此在意，

停下来思量这份痴爱

早已太迟，挽不回一起过的生活。

现在我一个人

包饺子，

按照我的心愿，

寂静房子中的寂静。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

The Market

Across from the Somerville Market

where women from Nicaragua

compare the price of mangoes

and boys in bloodied aprons

wrap dripping slabs in paper,

beneath the paper warehouse

that begs for conflagration,

the neighborhood pugilists gather.

Hunger is everywhere, even

the summerˉfed pigeons can feelit.

Slipping in slick from work

where opinions are grounds for

dismissal, they find the window

under the No Entrance sign,

their illegal pavilion for boxing.

Slimmer than scallions, their fists

are sermons, a oneˉtwodeliverance.

Their bodies bob back and forth in thering,

letting go of what can`t be recaptured,

fighting to keep things afloat.

市场

萨默维尔市场对面

从尼加拉瓜来的女人们

在比较芒果的价钱

穿着血点斑斑围裙的男孩们

用纸裹起滴血的肉块，

在那乞求大火的

存纸的仓库下，

社区的拳击手在聚集。

到处是饥饿，甚至

夏天喂养的鸽子也能感到。

溜出打工的地方——

那里抗议就意味着

开除，他们在“禁止入内”的牌子下

找到了门，

他们打拳的非法拳台。

比葱更修长柔韧，他们的拳头

是布道辞，一种连击的救赎。

他们的身体在围绳里来回浮动，

放弃那无法挽回的，

为了出头死斗。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

Weekend Getaway

Saturday morning was too cold for awalk,

finally something to agree on.

On the promontory`s rocks where tidalmiasma

coats the flaking shale in salt, the airshocked us—

the icicles clenched in the fissuresbetween crags,

forcing them apart. I crawled across theberm

like an overˉarmored crab and thethin

salt air stung the scrapes on myhands.

From your perch on a dark curve of bedrock,

you stared at a trawler pinned on thehorizon.

Gulls gathered over the swells culling fish

and I knew why the ocean is a body,

as raw and saline as we are, death at eachboundary.

Roadside shacks, signs for gasoline

and blueberries, muddy and stippled bysnow.

I wanted to stop to watch Penobscot`sstunted forests

splintering the ocean into green needles,

but you said it should be better furtheron.

The water was arranged with stark whitetarpaulins—

anchored schooners of the rich, covered

against winter squalls. A gray municipalpark,

granite dedication to the war dead.

I snapped photographs as mallards

scavenged fish from each other's mouths.

In a motel off Rt. 1, a pastel expanse

of bed, screaming Raptors from the base.

Your mouth in the unnatural dawn

defined what couldn`t be salvaged—

a minefield of silences, the smell of slowmildew

staining our jeans—no questionof turning around.

Gas station coffee and another ruralhighway.

We left the car by a meadow of stubble

to search for signs of the St. Croix.

Sandy grit clung to the road's shoulders,

shrinking from our boots. Near the blackˉedged

clapboard church, a summer cottager`slawn.

You, always more timid, hung back,

while I hopped the fence, hearing the grasssnap

like the sound of locusts in a field.

I followed lines of frost across uncertainsolidity

and in the shallows by the cove's leewardedge,

two men were bending over the tide flats

to pull clams or whelk from the narroweelgrass.

Water came up to the brims of their waders

and only the seagulls spoke as they droppedtheir catch

into a bucket—bivalve, slow-moving,mute.

We know no other way of being.

I heard you approaching, but my only muscle

is the simple lever to open and close me,

and I couldn`t swim away, out to where land

dead-ends in bright exposure—

beyond the sullen salt marsh，hoary and bristling，the ocean.

周末野游

周六一早冷得无法散步，

我们终于达成一致。

在海角的岩石上，潮水的腥气

给片片页岩涂了盐，这空气震惊了我们——

冰柱紧附在峭壁的裂缝中，

迫使它们分开。我爬过崖径

像一只过度武装的螃蟹，稀薄

咸涩的空气叮咬着我手上的擦伤。

从你栖息的一道黑岩上，

你凝视那艘钉在海平线上的拖网渔船。

海鸥集翔在高浪之上捕鱼

我就知道为什么大海是一副身体

和我们一样生涩，咸，每一条分界线都有死亡。

路边的棚屋，卖汽油和蓝莓的

招牌，沾着泥，雪星星点点。

我想停下看佩诺布斯科特河低矮的森林

把大洋分解成绿针，

但你说向前走会更好。

海面陈列着光秃秃的白油布——

富人们停泊的帆船，被盖上

抵抗冬天的暴风。灰暗的市政公园，

花岗岩纪念碑献给战死的人。

我拍下照片，就像野鸭

从彼此嘴里啪啪抢鱼吃。

1号公路边的汽车旅馆里，一条褪色

的床单铺展，咆哮的猛禽战机从基地飞出。

你的话在这反常的清晨

定义了什么不能被挽救——

寂静像雷区，迟缓的霉味

弄脏了我们的牛仔裤——返回是不可能的。

又是加油站咖啡和另一条乡村公路。

我们下车，沿草茬地去找

圣克洛伊河a的痕迹。

沙砾附在路肩上，

在我们的靴子下退缩。靠近安装黑色隔板的

教堂，是一片乡村别墅的草坪。

你，总是更羞怯，犹豫不前，

而我跳过围栏，听着田地里蝗虫一样

草的沙沙声音。

我沿着一条条寒霜穿过踩不住的硬地，

在小湾背风边缘的浅滩，

两个男人正俯身潮坪

从狭长的鳗草中拽出蛤蚌或蛾螺。

海水升至他们高筒靴的上沿

只有海鸥在叫喊，当他们把收获

扔进水桶——双壳贝，移动缓慢，沉默。

我们知道只能这样生活。

我听到你在靠近，但我唯一的肌肉

就是打开关闭我天真的阀门，

还有，我不能游走，游到那

陆地消尽，闪亮的曝露中——

越过阴郁的盐沼，灰白的，怒张的，大海。

注：

a位于缅因州。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

Smoking Outside the Dana Farber CancerInstitute

the muscular orderlies collect in blues

while groups of doe-eyed students

clutch their cappuccinos

and visiting children shriek like seagulls

strayed too far from the sea

down the block the stern-armed crossingguard

scolds the walkers who weave throughtraffic

as though their beautiful bodies

were the least of their worries

as though on the other side

immortality awaits

with arms held open in wonder

在德纳·法伯癌症研究所外抽烟

穿蓝衣服的健壮护工聚在一起

成群张着天真大眼的学生

抓着他们的卡布奇诺

探访的孩子们像远离大海

迷失的海鸥那样尖叫

沿这个街区铁面的交通指挥

训斥穿行于车流中的人

好像他们根本不担心

美丽的身体

好像在另一侧

不朽惊奇地

张开双臂，等待着

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

For Once

Mind`s mute talk rings louder than twigssnapped clean,

the self that schemes to pick itself apart.

Too soon these slopes will cast the shadesof fire

then overnight blow bare and show their bones.

Like city stains flushed from the flesh oflungs,

each smudge asserts a claim of memory,

flesh ever ephemeral. Leaves loosen

more vermillion further north, more fallen.

To lose all but the bones, to be strippeddown.

Pale birches blush in the cooling latelight,

evergreen needles slough off to the stream

where rounded rocks reveal their ancient course.

Suffering,

silence,broken—

I break too,

a clatter-hoofed deer bolts from the clearing,

her fear-lashed blazing gaze shock-constricts me—

she dashes, catches her legs on brush, tail

whipping white—

call to love, call to danger.

仅此一次

脑海里不出声的谈话比小树枝清脆折断更响，

自我密谋揪扯自己。

很快这些山丘将笼罩火的荫蔽

然后整夜大风会裸露它们的骨头。

像从肺泡冲出的城市的污点，

每一缕污迹都要有自己的记忆，

肉体更短暂。树叶脱落

越向北越红，落得越多。

除了骨头失去一切，被扒光。

苍白的桦树在渐凉的夕光中晕红，

常绿的针叶抛向溪流

那里圆石显露它们古老的道路。

受苦，

沉默，被打碎——

我也破碎了，

蹄子嗒嗒响的鹿从空地逃脱，

她被恐惧鞭打的燃烧的凝视让我紧绷——

她猛冲，在灌木中卡住了脚，撩动

白色的尾巴——

渴求欢爱，呼叫危险。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

Allowance

Chamomile tea cools in the coffeedecanter.

Enrique worries, says Oma refuses to drink—

plump, legs weakened by sugar in the blood,

the stairs insurmountable.

Always keep an egg in the houseso the children won`t starve.

The summer in the desert she sent me insearch

of tortillas still shaped by women`s hands,

meinekleine Engel, she called me

eyes already blind to my failures.

*

Estranged daughter, a granddaughter

obsessed with making amends—

these paltry comforts. In the kitchen,

Oma`s blindness is an oak

spreading its roots beneath the house,

breaking stone, stealing water.

She`s been awake for hours，waiting.

Four countries, nine tongues, and the stoveforbidden,

the kettle, the fireplace forbidden.

*

After the vision of her death, the monthsof suffering ahead,

she came out on the porchto listen to myfather pull away,

leaning hard against the railing, headcocked like a robin.

His first visit in five years, his last.Distance, shame, a hole

in the sleeve of her sweater. Still hurt byoutward things.

Winter, one hand cradled the hollow whereher womb once was.

*

The dining table laden with equatorialartifacts,

unopened envelopes, Japanese prints,

yellowed animal bones carved into boxes.

Mixed loyalties.

Stay, have something.There`splenty, bitte, bitte.

Loneliness.She strokes her fingers

down the stained napkin.

These habits that own us.

She is looking into nothing.

*

Enrique, the family mystery, the fakecousin

half her age. He loved her first in theheat

of the Yucatan, now cares for her in ourabsence.

Felixe, he says. Felixe.

Don`t forget how hunger feels, Szuzhika. Italways returns.

How can I throw a stone?

Sit, break bread, savor—togetherness

a complex need. This tangled triad ofwomen,

my organs torn. My aunt wants to leaveher.

*

We found half a photograph hidden in herdresser—

she is fit at forty, round-bellied, bentover her flowers.

She cried the summer the drought came

and she had to let her desert gardendie.

A man`s torso bows to thecilantro.

We take guesses at the excised face.

Separate realm, plains of wild maize andbuckwheat.

You are calling, calling.

The prairie winds lift and carry you.

*

Shadow-haunted as a child, my aunt bearsdeath

encapsulated in the axis of her spine.Woman

whose bones are kindness, whose love Idiscover

has its limits. Compassion fails her inthis divided house.

Whose love can encompass every fault?

Her eyes will not meet mine.

*

She accepts our weaknesses

as fitting, as her due.

Oma, regret is my demon,

the same harrowed spirit who raped you

in the sageˉhazeof your death trance.

Oma, your body was the least of you.

I listen, lips sewn shut

with ribbon. I watch you chew each raisin,

each ruby of sweetness,

savoring, savoring, savoring.

补偿

甘菊茶在咖啡壶里变凉。

恩里克忧心，说奶奶不想喝——

胖乎乎的，腿因血中的糖变弱，

楼梯难以爬上。

永远在房子里留个鸡蛋，孩子们就不会挨饿。

那个夏天在沙漠，她让我去找

还在女人们手里揉捏的墨西哥面饼，

她用德语叫我，我的小天使，

眼睛早已看不到我的缺点。

*

疏远的女儿，一个孙女

执着于如何弥补——

这些微不足道的抚慰。在厨房，

奶奶的失明是一棵橡树

在这座房子下伸展它的根

打破石头，窃取水。

她已醒了几个小时，等待着。

四个国家，九种语言，还有被禁用的火炉，

水壶，被禁用的壁炉。

*

在预感到她的死亡，提前受苦的几个月后，

她出来，在门廊倾听我父亲开车离去，

艰难地靠住栏杆，头像知更鸟一样翘起。

这是他五年来第一次探望，也是最后一次。疏远，羞愧，一个洞

在她毛衣袖子上。仍会被外物所伤。

冬天，一只手小心地轻抚那空洞，那里曾是她的子宫。

*

餐桌上布满了赤道附近的古物，

未打开的信，日本水彩印画，

被刻成盒子的发黄的动物骨头。

混在一起的忠心。

别走，吃点什么。好多呢，请，请。

孤寂。她在弄脏的餐巾下

抚摸手指。

这些习惯控制了我们。

她正在探究无物。

*

恩里克，家里的秘密，冒牌的表弟

年龄是她的一半。他早先在尤卡坦的高热中

爱上了她，现在照顾她，因为我们不在。

菲丽克丝，他说。菲丽克丝。

别忘了饥饿的感觉，珠玑喀。它总会回来。

我怎能扔出一块石头？

坐下，吃饭，尽情享受——聚会

一种复杂的需求。这女人们纠缠的三和音，

我撕开的器官。我的姑姑想要离开她。

*

我们在她的梳妆台发现半张照片——

她四十岁，身心健康，圆圆的肚子，向着她的花俯身。

她哭喊夏天干旱来了

她不得不让她沙漠中的花园死掉。

一个男人的躯干弯向芫荽。

我们对那张被剪掉的脸猜了又猜。

分离的境界，一片片野生的玉米和荞麦。

你呼唤，呼唤。

大草原的风把你举起带走。

*

小时候被幽灵纠缠，我的姑妈承受着

密封在她脊椎中轴的死亡。女人

她的骨头是仁慈，她的爱，我发现，

有其限度。她的慈悲在这座分裂的房子里落空。

谁的爱能包容每一个错误？

她的眼睛不愿再面对我的眼睛。

*

她接受了我们的脆弱

视之为当然，视之为她的报应。

奶奶，懊悔是我的魔鬼，

那同样恼人的心灵在你的死亡仪式上

鼠尾草烧起的浓烟中强暴了你。

奶奶，你的身体最不是你。

我倾听，嘴唇被缎带

缝住。我盯着你咀嚼每一粒葡萄干，

每一粒甜蜜的红宝石，

尝啊，尝啊，尝啊。

注：

a恩里克对奶奶的爱称，下面的珠玑喀也是。

bSageˉhaze，美国印第安人出生时会烧鼠尾草属的一种草，香味极重，烟极浓。

cDeath trance，一种死亡仪式，可以看到自己的死亡。

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

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