悲伤时节
文/卡迪嘉·奎恩
译/倪大也
祖母坐在橡木桌边,
劳动节的午后,她静静地,突然开口:
“我认识的人啊,都已不在了。” 这句话,敲在了我的心上。
我感到心跳,像这世间脆弱的血脉,
在薄薄的心房里奔涌。那持续的冲撞,
仍旧扰乱着我的身体,这并非我造的身躯,
却依然呼吸、运转,直到无法承受。
她离世的前夜,我感到她的灵魂,逐渐轻盈。
姨妈走的那年,也是一样的感觉。
我依旧对悲伤的表亲说:“我在这里。”
这是她母亲缺席的回声。
我们一同留在这迷茫的此岸,
如随意堆砌的砖块,不知去向。
所有我们拥有的有限时光,
都将在没有她们的日子里虚度。
面对自己的人生,我多么盼望清晨的薄雾,
可是岁月无常,一年年地,将一切掏空。
原文:
Season of Grief
Khadijah Queen
My grandmother sat at the head of her oak table 
one Labor Day afternoon & in a lull turned to me & said 
all the people I knew are dead. When she fixed those two words, I knew, 
I felt my heart in the world beat its blood through thin chambers. The constant 
rush still interrupts the body I didn’t make, but keep breathing somehow & functioning until I can’t, & the night before she died, I felt the easing of her spirit, 
& the same when my aunt died the year before. I still say to my still-grieving 
cousin I’m here—an echo of her mother’s absence, & we are left 
together on this side of unknowing, stack like throwing bricks 
all the finite seasons we have 
& will spend without them. Up against my own lifetime
I wish for fog, early morning. Instead, unpredictable years keep emptying. |
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