歸途
--Conchitina Cruz，羅浩原 譯
他在夜之隧道內開著車。他駛向一條吐得長長的舌頭似的巷道。一柱柱路燈的影子反覆齧咬著妳的臉龐。那個字就像根手指放上了妳的嘴唇。
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血淋淋的月亮搭到了玻璃上，像個孩子遢拉著大嘴。她在這暗室中看見了什麼？妳的血肉是後座之分心誘惑，中控台上的十字刑架。那個字成了妳膝蓋上的潰爛瘀傷。
當他開了口，駕駛者盯著妳的眼睛。妳將目光保持在後照鏡上。妳默默記下警察會需要知道的事情。
Return
--Conchitina Cruz
He drives inside the tunnel of night. He drives down the alley stretched out like a tongue. The shadows of lampposts graze your face again and again. The word is a finger against your lips.
A bloodied moon against the glass, a child's mouth hung open. What does she see in this dark chamber? Your flesh an interruption on the backseat, the crucifix on the dashboard. The word is a festering bruise on your knee.
When he speaks, the driver looks you in the eye. You keep your eyes on the rearview mirror. You memorize what the cops might need to know.
Conchitina Cruz, Dark Hours, Quezon City: The University of the Philippines Press, 2005, p.36.
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