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92 母亲，厨房 在万古与一瞬之间，出现了开合与渺茫。 在开合深处，出现了一道门缝。 门后面，是被推开的厨房。 菜刀起落处，云卷云舒。 光速般合拢的生死 被切成星球的两半，慢的两半。 萝卜也切成了两半。 在厨房，母亲切了悠悠一生， 一盘凉拌三丝，切得千山万水， 一条鱼，切成逶迤游刃的样子， 端上餐桌还不肯离开池塘。 暑天的豆腐，被切出了雪意， 而土豆听命于洋葱般的刀法 和顿挫，一种如花吐瓣的剥落， 一种时间内部的物我两空。 去留之间，刀起刀落。 但母亲手上并没有拿刀。 天使们递到母亲手上的 不是刀，是几片落叶。 深海的秋刀鱼越过刀锋 朝星空游去。如今厨房在天上， 整个菜市场被塞进冰箱， 而母亲，已无力打开冷时间。 93 Mother, Kitchen Where the immemorial and the instant meet, opening and distance appear. Through the opening: a door, crack of light. Behind the door, a kitchen. Where the knife rises and falls, clouds gather, disperse. A lightspeed joining of life and death, cut in two: halves of a sun, of slowness. Halves of a turnip. A mother in the kitchen, a lifetime of cuts. A cabbage cut into mountains and rivers, a fish, cut along its leaping curves, laid on the table still yearning for the pond. Summer’s tofu cut into premonitions of snow. A potato listens to the onion-counterpoint of the knife, dropping petals at its strokes: self and thing, halves of nothing at the center of time. Where gone and here meet, the knife rises, falls. But this mother is not holding a knife. What she has been given is not a knife but a few fallen leaves. The fish leaps over the blade from the sea to the stars. The table is in the sky now, the market has been crammed into the refrigerator, and she cannot open cold time. ...

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