You said grief has no tongue,

你说悲伤没有舌头，

but I’ve heard it bloom.

但我曾听见它花开的声音。

In the pause between your inhale

在你吸气的间隙，

and the way you whisper my name

以及你轻唤我名字的方式里——

like something wilting.

像某种正在枯萎的事物。

I carry every ache like seeds in my mouth―

我将每一种隐痛如种子般含在口中——

soft enough to swallow,

柔软得足以吞咽，

bitter enough to root.

苦涩得足以扎根。

This is how women become gardens

女人就是这样成为了花园，

where no one expected to find life.

在那些没人预料会有生命的地方。