The quivering wings of the winter ant
wait for lean winter to end.
I love you in slow, dim-witted ways,
hardly speaking, one or two words only.
What caused us each to live hidden?
A wound, the wind, a word, a parent.
Sometimes we wait in a helpless way,
awkwardly, not whole and not healed.
When we hid the wound, we fell back
from a human to a shelled life.
Now we feel the ant’s hard chest,
the carapace, the silent tongue.
This must be the way of the ant,
the winter ant, the way of those
who are wounded and want to live:
to breathe, to sense another, and to wait.
冬日的诗
冬日飞蚁颤动的翅膀
期待着贫瘠冬季的结束。
我爱你，我的方式迟钝而迂腐，
几乎完全沉默，除了只言片语。
我们各自隐秘地活着，是何缘故？
一道伤、那场风、某个字、或者父母。
有时候我们痴等，无助而笨拙，
既非成竹在胸又不能坦然释怀。
当你我掩饰起伤痕，我们便已
从人类退化成一种带壳的生命。
此时我们感到了冬蚁坚硬的前胸，
它的甲壳，它那沉默的舌头。
这必然就是蚂蚁的方式，
冬日的蚂蚁，那些受到伤害而仍想
存活下去的生物便有着这样的方式：
呼吸、感受他人、还得等待。
