Ward Corridor | Museum-Quality Art Print

Opposite me—
a short male doctor
asking a well-dressed woman, maybe sixty,
how often she wakes at night.
“Twice,”
she says.
My mask—
soaked with sweat—
begins to slip.
The battery warning
flickers on my tablet.
And in my chest,
a lighthouse begins
to falter—
casting out
a low, nocturnal glow.
Stained white walls
summon a Christmas night
in Harbin—years ago.
Empty streets.
My heart,
drenched in a nameless sorrow.
I knew it wasn’t from anything.
Didn’t need to explain it.
That knowing alone—
was enough.
A long breath—
drawn out,
simply because
there was still food
left in my stomach.
Last night,
I spoke
to a few pills
before sleep.
We discussed
our favorite shapes
of throats.
One, embarrassed,
told me:
“I’ve never been swallowed.”
I blushed too.
A mountain wind now roars
across the black tunnel.
Ahead—
a solitary land of snow.
And only just now,
in that very second,
did I realize:
my summer
has ended.

处于我对侧的低矮男性大夫在询问一个六十岁的着装时髦女性病人的起夜状况
“两次。”她说
我被汗水浸湿的口罩开始下滑
面前的平板的电量开始闪烁
我心中的灯塔亦开始摇摆而发散出暗夜呻吟般的光泽
污浊的洁白墙壁
使我的眼前出现几年前哈尔滨的圣诞夜
那时的街道空无一人
我的心中也无限失落
而这没有任何起因，我知道
甚至不用对任何人解释地知道着
松了一口气
松了一大口气，仅仅是因为我的肚子里还有残存的食物
昨天入睡之前，我同几枚药片对话
谈论她们各自喜欢的喉咙形状
有一个颇难为情地告诉我
“我还未被任何人饮下”
害得我也羞红了脸
面前山风呼啸
划越过长长的漆黑隧道，前方就是伶仃的雪国了
正是在这一秒之前
我才知晓了自我的夏天业已结束的事实