虽说我是一个诗人，我并不是一发子弹；

And although I am a poet, I am not the bullet;

我并不通过热寻的攻击人体软弱部分。

I will not heat-search the soft points.

我不是一个验尸官让她的手

I am not the coroner who will graze her hand

抚过赤裸的膝。没有让她的手指

over naked knees. Who will swish her fingers

快速掠过口腔。没有将尸体翻面，

in the mouth. Who will flip the body over, her eye a hook

眼睛像钩子般找寻政府登记的铅弹。

fishing for government-issued lead.

我不是一条人行道，不会在另一个面颊

I am not the sidewalk, which is unsurprised

粗暴摩擦它时无动于衷。

as another cheek scrapes harsh against it.

虽然我也会享受身体上柔软的手掌；

             Although I too enjoy soft palms on me;

享受他伏在我身上时强劲的呼吸；

enjoy when he rests on my body with a hard breath;

                                                                                 I have clasped

我已经把这个男人

this man inside me and released him again and again,

拥进我的身体又一次一次地放开他

listening to him die thousands of little deaths.

听他经历千万次微小的死亡。

What is a good metaphor for a woman who loves in a time like this?

如何比喻一个沉浸在爱中的女人的这个瞬间呢？

I am no scalpel or high thread count sheet. Not a gavel, or hand-painted teacup.

我不是手术刀也不是高级床单。不是法官槌，也不是

I am neither           nor romanced by the streetlamp nor candlelight;

手绘茶杯。

my hands are not an iron, but look, they’re hot, look

我也不是因为街灯或烛光而情欲勃发；

how I place them           in love           on his skin

我的手并不是一个烙铁，但看啊，它们是滚烫的，看

and am still able to unwrinkle his spine.

当我沉浸在爱中，如何把它们，放在他的肌肤之上

同时又可以烙平

他的脊梁。