south-of-yangtze, a republic —before the grave of liu rushi

Untitled: Raven Leilani

Untitled: Raven Leilani

 

By: Dong Li

 

I

 

the tailor brings in the vermillion cloak,
which has a snow-white turned-out collar of fleece, the hatter
brings in a leather rain hat, the shoe shop brings in high      
     boots.
out the door, a night-black horse already saddled—

 

i am dressed in my sunday best, sitting in the mirror, like
a vivacious young lady about to take the stage, in the role of             
     zhaojun,
the hostage that crossed the border, the bride in political                                
     copulation
won a moment of breath for her country.

 

now early summer, ice and snow are buried in the cellar,
locust blossoms of years past have been made into honey,
this moment the city quiet, all the gates shut tight,
only the river’s rolling tide broadcasts hoofbeats from the
     other bank.

 

i am dressed in my sunday best, dressed as a literary allusion,
blending allure into a parable, i want to cross the city,
i want to climb the walls, i want to horseback to the river
     front,
for the sake of rousing our demoralized troops.

 

II

 

i love watching those young soldiers
and their downy lips, the look in their eyes
shy and yet frank, their hemming and hawing desires
bob within their large adam’s apple, above blood-swelled      
     chest,

 

they are far better than those holdovers around me,
those complaining ladies who pass for honorable men,
rubbing beads of heavenly ways to tally their own loss and
     gain,
before the enemy, as in bed, soon pulling back from the fray.

 

alas, i feel repressed
like a wife in the arms of an old warden
too long unsatisfied, on some pretext entering
the walled yard and harvests pleasures from the inmates’
     hungry gazes,

 

but deep in my heart there is
an obscure illusion that i dare not speak of
like the women of boulogne looking forward to the breaching
     of city walls,
alas, decadent life, it needs a hard thrust from the outside.

 

III

 

at dusk i come home, trim the wick to burn brightly,
i use delicate and smart words,
like reflections of an edifice on the water
to rebuild a godly pagoda of humanistic culture,

 

once again, pride and tranquility
ripple through my heart, and i believe
there is a depth that cannot be conquered, it is like
a vagina that can swallow even the most virile men.

 

i believe that every deep wound, every hard blow
are passing whirlwinds, and afterward
peach flowers still waver in clear mid-air,
a pond reflecting the vast sky, sound of pipa rumbling from
     deep alleyways.

 

江南共和国

——柳如是墓前

 

 

裁缝送来了那件朱红色的大氅,

它有雪白的羊毛翻领,帽商

送来了皮质斗笠,鞋店送来长筒靴。

门外,一匹纯黑的马备好了鞍——

 

我盛装,端坐在镜中,就像

即将登台的花旦,我饰演昭君,

那个出塞的人质,那个在政治的交媾里

为国家赢得喘息机会的新娘。

 

已是初夏,冰雪埋放在地窖中,

在往年,槐花也已经酿成了蜜。

此刻城中寂寂地,所有的城门紧闭,

只听见江潮在涌动中播放对岸的马蹄。

 

我盛装,将自己打扮成一个典故,

将美色搅拌进寓言,我要穿越全城,

我要走上城墙,我要打马于最前沿的江滩,

为了去激发涣散的军心。

 

 

我爱看那些年轻的军士们

长着绒毛的嘴唇,他们的眼神

羞怯而直白,吞咽的欲望

沿着粗大的喉结滚动,令胸膛充血,

 

他们远胜过我身边那些遗老,

那些乔装成高士的怨妇,

捻着天道的人质计算着个人的得失,

在大敌面前,如同在床上很快就败下阵来。

 

哦,我是压抑的

如同在垂老的典狱长怀抱里

长久得不到满足的妻子,借故走进

监狱的围墙内,到犯人们贪婪的目光里攫获快感,

 

而在我内心的深处还有

一层不敢明言的晦暗幻象

就像布伦城的妇女们期待破城的日子,

哦,腐朽糜烂的生活,它需要外部而来的重重一戳。

 

 

薄暮我回家,在剔亮的灯芯下,

我以那些纤微巧妙的词语,

就像以建筑物的倒影在水上

重建一座文明的七宝楼台,

 

再一次,骄傲和宁静

荡漾在内心,我相信

有一种深邃无法被征服,它就像

一种阴道,反过来吞噬最为强悍的男人。

 

我相信每一次重创、每一次打击

都是过境的飓风,然后

还将是一枝桃花摇曳在晴朗的半空,

潭水倒映苍天,琵琶声传自深巷。