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輓詩
--Conchitina Cruz, 羅浩原 譯
城市是很多房間的屋子。不可能迷路。在一個房間，
你母親在買白衣。在另一間，我正唸故事給你聽。
我正唸故事給隔壁房間的你。好荒謬。你的身體
在白床上呼吸。我想要打開
房門去昨天的酒吧，我倆啜飲瑪格麗塔時你說我該
改改我的髮型了。我想要縱身跳入這故事的第一行。
我倆啜飲著瑪格麗塔，你說我該看看這部荒謬電影
你母親在買白衣。小販指著上面繡的細珍珠給她看
繡滿了領際。我則假裝
在唸故事給你聽，可我坐在城市另一端。我正坐車去
我的婚禮，你牽著我的裙裾。你撢掉我額上的毛髮
注視著我的眼睛。你的身體躺在
白床。我想要將自己從故事的第一行扯出來。我想要
用手捂住小販的嘴讓他別問：什麼場合穿？你的母親
直撥弄著那排細珍珠。
祭司說人死就是從一個房間移到另一間。在這個城市，
這屋子，東西不會弄丟。你母親為你買了白衣，故事終。
當然，很荒謬。我揮拳敲著另一個房間的門，我屏住
呼吸，等待有人回答。
Elegy
--Conchitina Cruz
The city is a house with many rooms. It is impossible to get lost. In one room,
your mother is buying a white dress. In another, I am reading you a story.
I am reading you a story from another room. It’s ridiculous, really. Your body
breathes on a white bed. I want to open
a door to yesterday at the bar, where we sipped margaritas and you said I needed
to do something about my hair. I want to plunge into the first line of this story.
We sipped margaritas and you said I should watch this ridiculous film. Your
mother is buying a white dress. The vendor shows her the tiny pearls sewn on its
neckline. I am pretending
to read you a story as I sit on the other side of the city. In the car on the way to my
wedding, you held the train of my dress. You brushed the hair off my forehead
and looked me in the eye. Your body lies
on a white bed. I want to pull myself through the first line of this story. I want to
put my hand on the mouth of the vendor who asks: what occasion? Your mother
strokes the tiny pearls.
The priest says one who dies moves from one room to another. In this city, this
house, nothing is lost. Your mother buys you a white dress, end of story.
It’s ridiculous, of course. I pound my fists on the door to another room. I hold my
breath and wait for an answer.
Conchitina Cruz, Disappear, Quezon City: High Chair, 2004, p.7.
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