Leaving the Surface
Written by Feng Yan
Translated from the Chinese by Jami Proctor Xu
Narrated by Jami Proctor Xu
China
Leaving the surface, metal enters the stomach from flowing water.
Water droplets then have weight like awls.
The world reflected in the blue light of the soul is translucent;
nuts loosen, protrude from connecting joints.
The nocturnal animals of thoughts search out manholes little by little.
There are oars in your blood;
you begin to row, but there’s no shore.
Night enters desolation in the joints of both legs, gets lost;
a faint coolness, black wind;
ivy sweeps across the glass, sweeps my motionless back,
the redness of fingernails sweeps across the four sides of the ceiling.
The eardrum hides in the silencer’s shadow
and hears riddles swelling in the cells.
In the window’s depths, roots are entangled with DNA;
those people,squirming or playing the qin,* are partially hidden on the back side of the moon.
The light turned off the whole night.
The wind increases its whistling;
a flute conceals some other sounds.
After several hours, your restlessness is carried away by the wings’ gossamer,
the bed drops, in the depths of the subconscious,
do your compatibility with Leos
and doomed relationships with Scorpios still exist?
Have they canceled the warning that the coffee-colored hamster,
who hid itself but flung its tail out, is going extinct?
* a qin is a seven-stringed Chinese zith
Leaving the surface, metal enters the stomach from flowing water.
Water droplets then have weight like awls.
The world reflected in the blue light of the soul is translucent;
nuts loosen, protrude from connecting joints.
The nocturnal animals of thoughts search out manholes little by little.
There are oars in your blood;
you begin to row, but there’s no shore.
Night enters desolation in the joints of both legs, gets lost;
a faint coolness, black wind;
ivy sweeps across the glass, sweeps my motionless back，
the redness of fingernails sweeps across the four sides of the ceiling.
The eardrum hides in the silencer’s shadow
and hears riddles swelling in the cells.
In the window’s depths, roots are entangled with DNA;those people, squirming or playing the qin,*
are partially hidden on the back side of the moon.
The light turned off the whole night.
The wind increases its whistling;
a flute conceals some other sounds.
After several hours, your restlessness is carried away by the wings’ gossamer,
the bed drops, in the depths of the subconscious,
do your compatibility with Leos
and doomed relationships with Scorpios still exist?
Have they canceled the warning that the coffee-colored hamster,
who hid itself but flung its tail out, is going extinct?
* a qin is a seven-stringed Chinese zither