1. Lady Macbeth
I am Lady Macbeth.
I have a white face, white breasts, white buttocks,
a white abdomen, white legs, white feet.
My two hands—red, red, red.
Before nibbling at the white-hot sun and swallowing it,
the black night spills the afterglow of desire and apprehension
all over my hands—
written in blood, a book-in-palm whose pages have no end
of turning and tearing.
I pour over its dazzling blades and bloody shadows through the hours,
read while I sleep, sleep while I walk.
Every page is a precipice that
lures and stabs me with the keenness of a dagger.
My body falls again and again into an abyss,
the countless imprints of my hands
hang their bright red on the crag.
Buy all the mineral water in the supermarket
to wash my hands.
Take all the brand-name perfumes in the department store
to scent my hands.
Cast rye, black mist, carbon powder, and coffee grounds into the sky
to deceive eyes and ears.
Send the world peppers, chilies, ice-cream, and cakes
to block mouths and noses.
“To , or not to , that is the question.”
You dwell in your soliloquies; I can’t help my anxiety.
If you want me, take action.
If you desire fruit, be daring.
Your mouth opens and gives me sweet talk
but you dare not use your hands to avenge your father.
To , or not to , that is the question.
Compelled to be a good daughter and a good sister,
I dare not urge myself to seduce you
into picking and releasing me, to be a bad girl.
The bulldozer of morality pushes us
and the flowers and plants we love
to the mad pond.
There’s rosemary. And too pansies.
Fennel, and columbines there.
Rue over here, and a daisy.
Here are some violets, but they wither’d all…
What is love? It makes you forget to sleep and eat,
makes you take poison for elixir, sleep for death.
If a rose weren’t called a rose,
would it be as fragrant?
If Viagra weren’t called Viagra,
would it be as regnant?
If Romeo weren’t called Romeo,
would Juliet, a Capulet, fall
head over heels, go moony?
kiss my areola, my labia, my womb, my tomb,
mold my casket into an altar.
What is love? It makes you take bitter for sweet,
Take dying for living.
My magic staff can summon wind and rain.
Like a poet or composer, it liberates
sunken ships and rouses spirits from the sea.
At its order, the spirits furnish a masquerade in midair,
play fantastic tunes, and pen an island in the aqua of
a manuscript. Imagination and reconciliation join forces
to build a beautiful new world: those who are
in deep slumbers will wake, those whose eyes
are long open will sleep; enemies will become
lovers, the lunatic is no different than the sane,
life and death run a three-legged race,
computer and pig’s brain share the same trough…
Where the bees suck, there suck I; where
dreams puff up, save our little life.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are a triune
even though all spirits are melted into air, into
a drift of music, giving food to love, giving
a file name or an address to the airy.
Translator’s Note: In “Ophelia,” the lines “There’s rosemary… but they wither’d all…” are adapted from Hamlet, Act IV, Scene V. In “Prospero,” a “brave new world” and “Where the bees suck, there suck I” are taken from The Tempest, Act V, Scene 1; “all spirits are melted into air” and “our little life” are from Act IV, Scene 1.