Chris Song Zijiang

 

 

飄搖中的家

 

 

宋子江

 

要搬走的人找不到家,要留下的

歸家無期。白天,你說太重的負擔

壓彎了支柱。夜裡,增生的腰椎

讓你難以入睡。你聽到石屎剝離

鋼筋兀兀外露。隱隱作痛的腰椎

又長出了多少根骨刺?你咬著牙

十多年來,忍過多少個睡不著的

夜晚。你不敢叫出來,怕惹來

人去樓空之禍。而如今,紛雜的

腳步,終讓你嘗到惶恐的節奏。

 

你短暫回家收拾行裝時,思慮浪蕩

在錯綜的街巷,你要留下什麽?

蹙弱的夕陽鋪過冰冷的鐵欄,

棱棱杠影保持著曖昧的間距,

紅白藍上尼龍線仍井井有條,

内裏卻盡是格格不入的淩亂,

結果也只帶上不知所從的將來,

臨走前關上不知何時再打開的窗,

當你的腳踏在實在的街道上,

想起自己留下了飄搖中的房子,

看著一扇忘了關的窗,想問自己——

什麽是家?

 

小女孩拖著媽媽的手,抱著枕頭,

壓歲錢枕了半年,還是趕不走

跨世紀的作祟。秋風肅肅,

你徘徊在對面馬路,仰看

昨夜睡房的窗台,昨夜的床

仍在那扇烏牆後,你還從簾縫間

瞧見銀亮的新月,現在它在鐮鐮

收割心底的微光,背上的竹筐

盛著太多沉重的說話,你說不出來,

你挺直的腰板被壓成一個問號——

今晚要睡在哪裡呢?你也沒有

問出口,只是抱著沉默的枕頭。

 

我們是彼此的災民

我們睡在火床上

我們只有一板之隔

說好今晚不說話

安靜地睡過今晚

為何床板軋軋作響?

說好今晚不說話

但你歎氣,你抗議了嗎?

我們都不要出聲

安靜地睡過今晚

 

 

 

shaking home

 

Chris Song Zijiang

 

Some want to move, but can’t find

their homes; others want to stay, but don’t know

when they may return. During the day

you say you’re overburdened, your spine

is already a curve; at night, the swelling

keeps you from sleep. You hear cement

flaking; steel bars exposed.  You wonder

how many spurs stick out from your aching spine.

You have to grit your teeth through this sleepless night.

You have gritted your teeth for fifteen years.

You dared not cry, afraid to be evacuated.

In the end it’s tumultuous footsteps

– an anxious rhythm to which you’re drawn.

 

You go back to pack your stuff

thoughts drifting through a web of intersections.

What should you leave behind?

The weak sun through the indifferent rails;

the bars keep obscure distance from one another;

threads of the nylon bag look to keep their outside

in check; in it are all out of tune. In the end,

you can only bring an uncertain future. Before leaving,

you shut the windows, not knowing when

they can be re-opened. You come down

to the solid street, realizing you’ve left behind

a shaking home. Looking at a window

that you’ve forgotten to close, you wanted to ask yourself –

what is home? –

 

A little girl is holding her mother’s hand

other hand holding a pillow. Your red pockets

under it haven’t brought enough luck

for you to sleep over this trans-century

time bomb. A rustle of dry autumnal winds.

You walk over to the other side of the street

and look at the window sill. Your bed

is just behind the dark dingy wall. Last night

you peeked through the sliver between curtains

at the silver crescent. This sickle is now harvesting

the remnant in your heart. The light

dims into tenebrous doubts you carry

on your back. You can’t let it out.

Your straight back bone is curved

to a question mark – Where am I to sleep tonight? –

You haven’t asked. You’re just holding the silent pillow.

 

We’re all taking refuge here;

We’re all sleeping on beds of fire;

We’re separated by one plank.

We’ve agreed not to speak,

so that we can sleep through the night.

Why do the planks creak?

We’ve agreed not to speak,

but you sighed. Are you

thinking otherwise?

Let’s not make a sound.

Let’s sleep through the night.

 

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