There’s a thing like hair knotted against the walls of my stomach. Something’s forever changed. A piece of the sky has fallen away, and all the silt and muck trickles through, stuffing itself thick into my throat, down down to mix with the hair. My father is dying. Been dying every day. In lives before this, before gold and bark of cinnamon, before shadow of wingspan cloaking a field. In dirt or saltwater, in a wreck where he was the ship, both overthrown and sunk down, to be with pitchfork and bone, in oil, in a river with parsley on his tongue. Marked. Through hours and centuries. A festered foot dragged against a shore. In concrete. In mold. Against stained wall. In silk and soot. Oh holy eucalyptus and sage. Oh hymn for the dying. How many refrains? Oh burning root and building, storefront of shattered glass. On asphalt and sprig of flame. How to count and keep? In this life, we lost him some time ago. But in my skin and in my hair, he is still dying. My lungs won’t refuse the memory of him. In spine and fingertip. In ankle bone. My father lies across the concrete. On my knees, a man is approaching. On my knees, a man wears dark blue and metal. My father is upright yet he is dying. Oh policeman, guardian of empire. Of rope and stone. Of burning mist. In my chest, my father is knocked to the ground. In my wrist, he clutches the knotweed in the concrete. In my eye, a kick to his stomach. Oh policeman, in lineage of gold and glory. Of barbed wire and chamber. Of walls and whip and stinging grass. Sing the purple mountains. Sing the gilded streets. In the tent of my ribs, a gun butt to his mouth. In the tent of my lip, a grip around his neck. My father, with the fate of pulp. My father, bloodstrung with a fist of knotweed. How to mark the hours? How to bind the time? In my teeth, the man swings an arm like a sickle. It slices through my father’s breath. In my breast, they are as close as lovers, enough to lick the sweat and spit. My father is taking too long to die. Slow slow. He is upon my hip. He is lingering. He is loitering, stretched out like a flag. The man grows tired and grips his metal. My father, knotweed in a fist.

中文翻译：

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在泥土或盐水中

有一种东西像头发打结在我的胃壁上。有些东西永远改变了。一片天塌下来了，所有的淤泥和淤泥都流了下来，厚厚地塞进了我的喉咙，向下与头发混合。我父亲快死了。每天都在死去。在此之前的生命中，在黄金和肉桂树皮之前，在遮掩田野的翼展阴影之前。在泥土或盐水中，在他所在的沉船中，无论是倾覆还是沉没，他都带着干草叉和骨头，在油中，在河里，舌头上放着欧芹。标记。经过几个小时和几个世纪。一只溃烂的脚拖在岸边。在混凝土中。在模具中。靠在染色的墙上。在丝绸和烟灰中。哦，神圣的桉树和鼠尾草。哦，为垂死的赞美诗。有多少克制？哦，燃烧的根和建筑，碎玻璃的店面。在沥青和火焰小枝上。如何计数和保存？这一生，我们前段时间失去了他。但在我的皮肤和头发中，他仍在死去。我的肺不会拒绝他的记忆。在脊椎和指尖。在脚踝骨。我父亲躺在混凝土对面。在我的膝盖上，一个男人正在靠近。在我的膝盖上，一个男人穿着深蓝色和金属。我的父亲是正直的，但他正在死去。哦警察，帝国的守护者。绳子和石头。燃烧的薄雾。在我的胸口，我的父亲被撞倒在地。在我的手腕上，他抓住混凝土中的虎杖。在我的眼里，他的肚子被踢了一脚。哦，警察，黄金和荣耀的血统。带刺铁丝网和密室。墙壁、鞭子和刺人的草。唱紫山。歌唱镀金的街道。在我的肋骨帐篷里，枪托抵着他的嘴。在我唇的帐篷里，他的脖子上一抓。我的父亲，与纸浆的命运。我的父亲，用虎杖的拳头血脉贲张。如何标记时间？如何绑定时间？在我的牙齿中，男人挥动着镰刀般的手臂。它刺穿了我父亲的呼吸。在我的胸中，他们就像恋人一样亲密，足以舔到汗水和唾沫。我父亲死的时间太长了。慢慢。他在我的臀部。他在徘徊。他在游荡，像一面旗帜一样伸展开来。男人累了，握紧了他的金属。我的父亲，拳头中的虎杖。男人累了，握紧了他的金属。我的父亲，拳头中的虎杖。男人累了，握紧了他的金属。我的父亲，拳头中的虎杖。