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Sex Perhaps
Kathryn Starbuck
A half century ago I was a welcoming port of call in
a buoyant(轻快的) place, a person to drop in on or
drop out of, adrift in a private sea of stormy
inwardness, trying to love myself with
conviction. The only ideas to reach my calm outer
deck fell off my young lovers' backs as they
unburdened themselves.
They sought authenticity1, oblivion, and an exportable
knowledge. They had aspirations2. They
wanted to become painters or poets or -- two of
them -- painters and poets, eager to face
a decade or lifetime of envy and disappointment.
silly boys, that either you are or you aren't?
They weren't. Neither was I. Oh how complacent
I was in my ignorant omnipotence4(全能): float to
no hope, achieve nothing worth dying or
living for except perhaps the melancholy6 luster
of delicious duty-free hand-me-down trips
to bed and back.
Did I know then that in a flash we'd be ancient,
and graves? Did I not know then that the honey we'd
so innocently spread would attract the mob
intellect of fire ants to bedevil(使痛苦,虐待) us in the night? How
did I know I'd outlive us all to become, at
last, a port of call I've come to call my own?
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