可能 | 弗罗斯特·甘德

儿子

并不是因为被遮起的镜子，而是

因为我们之间仍有话未说。为何

要说死亡，此定然之事？为何

要说身体如何驱使无数蠕虫

仿佛它是一个能够把握的概念，而不是

令人烧心断肠的实质？将之奉上，犹如

一篇悼词或一个故事，关于我或你的

煎熬。这是某种自我贬抑。

如是我们继续醒来面对被斩首的太阳和树丛

继续令我恼火。慈善的心脏

承受自己那组基因。你膝盖的弯曲处

拖着汹涌的菌群，寄生虫蠕动翻滚

穿过我的肠胃。有谁曾全然活出自我？

在大莱普提斯，你母亲和我年轻时，看到

众神的雕像，脸和脚都被破坏了。但是

那列美杜莎护卫的头则无人胆敢抹污。

当她说话，当你的母亲说话，就连拴着绳的

灰狗也会受惊呆立。我也会受惊呆立。

我把生命交给陌生人；不让它接近所爱。

儿子，她唯一的血脉。只有在你身上，她的血才流淌。

Son

It’s not the mirror that is draped but

what remains unspoken between us. Why

say anything about death, inevitability, how

the body comes to deploy the myriad worm

as if it were a manageable concept not

searing exquisite singularity? To serve it up like

a eulogy or a tale of my or your own

suffering. Some kind of self-abasement.

And so we continue waking to a decapitated sun and trees

continue to irk me. The heart of charity

bears its own set of genomes. You lug a bacterial swarm

in the crook of your knee, and through my guts

writhe helminth parasites. Who was ever only themselves?

At Leptis Magna, when your mother and I were young, we came across

statues of gods with their faces and feet cracked away by vandals. But

for the row of guardian Medusa heads. No one so brave to deface those.

When she spoke, when your mother spoke, even the leashed

greyhound stood transfixed. I stood transfixed.

I gave my life to strangers; I kept it from the ones I love.

Her one arterial child. It is just in you her blood runs.

可能

到了哪个地步，我的悲声才是从语言飞出的流弹。

犹如飘流的蜂群。

到了哪个地步，酸苦的沉默才随后而至。

我被蜂群包围，失去了意识。

到了哪个地步，连我也没有出路？

到了哪个地步，我在半昏迷中度日，梦见自己醒来，

避开朋友，呕吐，拔出脸上和手臂上的蜇针。

到了哪个地步，她的声音才被针别在有如幻光的布幕上。

到了哪个地步，鹤的裙撑才反起。

到了哪个地步，正在醒转，我才知道要付满的士起步价。

到了哪个地步，司机才转身对我说，它把你打倒了，

并不是你的错。

到了哪个地步，不再有磕磕绊绊的毕业典礼，

他才开始吹奏鹰骨笛。

到了哪个地步，我老去犹如再度徒手掰开蜂巢。

到了哪个地步，我才感到幻境比生活更真实。

到了哪个地步，才至少有某种可能

某种我不信的可能。

Beckoned

At which point my grief-sounds ricocheted outside of language.

Something like a drifting swarm of bees.

At which point in the tetric silence that followed

I was swarmed by those bees and lost consciousness.

At which point there was no way out for me either.

At which point I carried on in a semi-coma, dreaming I was awake,

avoiding friends and puking, plucking stingers from my face and arms.

At which point her voice was pinned to a backdrop of vaporous color.

At which point the crane’s bustles flared.

At which point, coming to, I knew I’d pay the whole flag pull fare.

At which point the driver turned and said it doesn’t need to be

your fault for it to break you.

At which point without any lurching commencement,

he began to play a vulture-bone flute.

At which point I grew old and it was like ripping open the beehive with my hands again.

At which point I conceived a realm more real than life.

At which point there was at least some possibility.

Some possibility, in which I didn’t believe.

中文翻译：宋子江

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