冯冬，1979年生于重庆，南京大学英文系博士毕业，现任教于暨南大学，译过游记《中华帝国纪行》、《亲密接触中国》、小说《蛛网与磐石》等，在海内外诗刊发表作品，与人合著诗集《残酷的乌鸦》（2011），主要研究诗歌、精神分析和当代哲学。

Peter Feng was born in Chongqing, China, in 1979. He has received a Ph.D degree in literature from Nanjing University and currently teaches English at Jinan University. He has co-translated A Journey through the Chinese Empire, Intimate China, and The Web and the Rock, and co-written a book of poems Cruel Raven (2011). His study includes poetry, psychoanalysis, and contemporary philosophy.

羽毛

Feathers

长出羽毛的一瞬间，无花果的叶子碎裂如一张地毯。
鸟的图案。这最后的飞升与最初的。这等待一生的
刺痛，从手心沿肢体筋脉一路轰鸣。气息闪烁，肌
腱和毛发脱落，气血逆行，皮肤发亮，壳化，被穿
破，渗出蓝色液体。你注视手指间的部分，半透明，
如蹼，细微的柔软的白色纤维从侧旁毛孔中一根根
挤出，开花翕动，拍打空气。一面面精致的扇子。
很难想象从如此小的孔洞里挤出如此大的中空管状
物，刺痛地穿越。这是一种类似自然的生长。再也
摸不到骨头了，只有柔软的拍打，手再也触摸不到
另一只手。触觉消失了。你发出一声尖叫，悬在空
中。			

The moment feathers grew,fig leaves cracked liked 
a carpet. A pattern of birds.This first and last 
ascent. The twinge anticipated for a lifetime now 
rushes from palm to limbs through internal channels. 
Breath flickers, tendons and hair fall away, qi and 
blood retrograde, skin brightens turned shell-like, 
blue liquid oozing out. You watch the translucent, 
webbed part between your five fingers and see tender 
white fibers squeezing out of pores one after another. 
They blossom and flutter in the air. Such exquisite 
fans. It’s hard to imagine such a small hole forcing 
such gigantic pipes through, causing such pain. It 
was nearly a natural transformation. There is no bone 
anymore, only soft fluttering. One hand can never feel 
the other. Touch has disappeared. You gave a cry and 
hung in midair.    			

门

The Door

睡着的时候身体内的许多门一一打开了，有的门在头
顶竖直打开，有的门在脚下水平打开，有的门在空中
斜着打开，还有的门一边收缩一边打开。你可以被吸
入任何一扇门，每一扇都通向一个曾经的地点，一次
真实的冒险。有时是门在选择你，你无法走入想走入
的门，虽然门后总有什么东西在闪烁，闪烁，如遇难
船只的信号。从许多门上，你看见一个下沉的你，螺
旋状下沉，阶梯式下沉，跳跃性下沉，从一块浮板沉
到更黑的另一块，手里抓着救生衣残片。你不愿进入。
有时你沉入天空，越来越高的下沉，沉得飘了起来，
沉入门的远景处，仿佛那儿有一个点牵引着你。实际
上，门不分上下左右，而下沉也只是一个隐喻。很难
想象沉入一扇门，或同时沉入很多扇门，你的身体印
在上面，而意识早已穿透过去。			

After one falls asleep, doors inside the body open one 
by one. Some open vertically over the head, some below 
foot-level, some obliquely in midair, and some open 
while contracting, closing. You could be drawn into any 
one of them, and every door leads to a previous site, a 
real adventure. Sometimes it is the door that chooses 
you, you can’t enter the ones you’d like to, even though 
something in there flickers, like the signal from 
a shipwreck. On many doors you see yourself sinking, 
spiraling down, cascading, sinking, leaping, jumping 
from one floating board to another even darker one,
clutching at torn pieces of a lifejacket. You don't want 
to enter. Sometimes you sink into the sky, sinking higher 
and higher, where you begin to drift, sinking into the 
remote perspective of a door, as if a point there is 
drawing you into it. Actually there's no upper or lower, 
left or right for the door, and sinking too is a pure 
metaphor. It's hard to imagine sinking into a door or 
into many doors simultaneously. Your body is imprinted on 
it while your consciousness has long passed through.