文学与艺术诗歌：诗歌TheCleaving_英文诗词

    by li-young lee

    he gossips like my grandmother， this man

    with my face， and i could stand

    amused all afternoon

    in the hon kee grocery，

    amid hanging meats he

    chops： roast pork cut

    from a hog hung

    by nose and shoulders，

    her entire skin burnt

    crisp， flesh i know

    to be sweet，

    her shining

    face grinning

    up at ducks

    dangling single file，

    each pierced by black

    hooks through breast， bill，

    and steaming from a hole

    stitched shut at the ass，

    i step to the counter， recite，

    and he， without even slightly

    varying the rhythm of his current confession or harangue，

    scribbles my order on a greasy receipt，

    and chops it up quick.

    such a sorrowful chinese face，

    nomad， gobi， northern

    in its boniness

    clear from the high

    warlike forehead

    to the sheer edge of the jaw.

    he could be my brother， but finer，

    and， except for his left forearm， which is engorged，

    sinewy from his daily grip and

    wield of a two-pound tool，

    he's delicate， narrow-

    waisted， his frame

    so slight a lover， some

    rough other

    might break it down

    its smooth， oily length.

    in his light-handed calligraphy

    on receipts and in his

    moodiness， he is

    a southerner from a river-province；

    suited for scholarship， his face poised

    above an open book， he'd mumble

    his favorite passages.

    he could be my grandfather；

    come to america to get a western education

    in 1917， but too homesick to study，

    he sits in the park all day， reading poems

    and writing letters to his mother.

    he lops the head off， chops

    the neck of the duck

    into six， slits

    the body

    open， groin

    to breast， and drains

    the scalding juices，

    then quarters the carcass

    with two fast hacks of the cleaver，

    old blade that has worn

    into the surface of the round

    foot-thick chop-block

    a scoop that cradles precisely the curved steel.

    the head， flung from the body， opens

    down the middle where the butcher

    cleanly halved it between

    the eyes， and i

    see， foetal-crouched

    inside the skull， the homunculus，

    gray brain grainy

    to eat.

    did this animal， after all， at the moment

    its neck broke，

    image the way his executioner

    shrinks from his own death？

    is this how

    i， too， recoil from my day？

    see how this shape

    hordes itself， see how

    little it is.

    see its grease on the blade.

    is this how i'll be found

    when judgement is passed， when names

    are called， when crimes are tallied？

    this is also how i looked before i tore my mother open.

    is this how i presided over my century， is this how

    i regarded the murders？

    this is also how i prayed.

    was it me in the other

    i prayed to when i prayed？

    this too was how i slept， clutching my wife.

    was it me in the other i loved

    when i loved another？

    the butcher sees me eye this delicacy.

    with a finger， he picks it

    out of the skull-cradle

    and offers it to me.

    i take it gingerly between my fingers

    and suck it down.

    i eat my man.

    the noise the body makes

    when the body meets

    the soul over the soul's ocean and penumbra

    is the old sound of up-and-down， in-and-out，

    a lump of muscle chug-chugging blood

    into the ear； a lover's

    heart-shaped tongue；

    flesh rocking flesh until flesh comes；

    the butcher working

    at his block and blade to marry their shapes

    by violence and time；

    an engine crossing，

    re-crossing salt water， hauling

    immigrants and the junk

    of the poor. these

    are the faces i love， the bodies

    and scents of bodies

    for which i long

    in various ways， at various times，

    thirteen gathered around the redwood，

    happy， talkative， voracious