Aiden Heung
Aiden Heung (He/They) is a Chinese poet born in a Tibetan Autonomous Town. His English poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Australian Poetry Journal, The Missouri Review, Poetry International, Harvard Review, Cincinnati Review, Crazyhorse, Black Warrior Review, The Minnesota Review, among many other places. After working as a traveling salesman for many years, he recently relocated to St.Louis where he is an MFA candidate at Washington University.
Tip the author through PayPal xiangqiushi@live.com
Phenomenon of the Everyday
Snow swirls; I listen
to Waltz No.2.
My window a Chinese painting.
Sitting on my bed, I’m extravagance
I’m shame I’m words bound
to a flirty mouth.
I don’t wear underpants.
My couch royal blue, water
unfrilled by wind.
My room a cosmos claimed
by a black hole—I’m Gravity; I swallow air.
It’s easy to attract a body.
Now I’m still handsome;
now I pull my shirt like old skin;
now it’s time to make time.
I put fire in the drink, ice
on the candle. My hair rosewater.
Then like light, violating night
pushes through the door.
Us Strangers
By the window I’m an open hand:
I want flowers, chocolate
and all the earthly things.
Outside, umbrellas pass in twos;
their bright colors tear open the air.
There’s sound, like waves from a sea
I should have known better.
For a moment I’m rain I’m the splashing
that breaks the city’s
monotonous tin—a drenched thought,
a drifting body: catch me,
read me like a face.
The waiter sails across the bar and brings
a smile to my table. Who
allows music to the room?
Then as if from a story that haunts me long
after finished, he walks through the door.
Aiden Heung
Phenomenom of the Everyday
Snow swirls; I listen
to Waltz No.2.
My window a Chinese painting.
Sitting on my bed, I’m extravagance
I’m shame I’m words bound
to a flirty mouth.
I don’t wear underpants.
My couch royal blue, water
unfrilled by wind.
My room a cosmos claimed
by a black hole—I’m Gravity; I swallow air.
It’s easy to attract a body.
Now I’m still handsome;
now I pull my shirt like old skin;
now it’s time to make time.
I put fire in the drink, ice
on the candle. My hair rosewater.
Then like light, violating night
pushes through the door.
Us Strangers
By the window I’m an open hand:
I want flowers, chocolate
and all the earthly things.
Outside, umbrellas pass in twos;
their bright colors tear open the air.
There’s sound, like waves from a sea
I should have known better.
For a moment I’m rain I’m the splashing
that breaks the city’s
monotonous tin—a drenched thought,
a drifting body: catch me,
read me like a face.
The waiter sails across the bar and brings
a smile to my table. Who
allows music to the room?
Then as if from a story that haunts me long
after finished, he walks through the door.
Aiden Heung
Aiden Heung (He/They) is a Chinese poet born in a Tibetan Autonomous Town. His English poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Australian Poetry Journal, The Missouri Review, Poetry International, Harvard Review, Cincinnati Review, Crazyhorse, Black Warrior Review, The Minnesota Review, among many other places. After working as a traveling salesman for many years, he recently relocated to St.Louis where he is an MFA candidate at Washington University.
Aiden Heung
Aiden Heung (He/They) is a Chinese poet born in a Tibetan Autonomous Town. His English poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Australian Poetry Journal, The Missouri Review, Poetry International, Harvard Review, Cincinnati Review, Crazyhorse, Black Warrior Review, The Minnesota Review, among many other places. After working as a traveling salesman for many years, he recently relocated to St.Louis where he is an MFA candidate at Washington University.
Tip the author through PayPal xiangqiushi@live.com
Phenomenon of the Everyday
Snow swirls; I listen
to Waltz No.2.
My window a Chinese painting.
Sitting on my bed, I’m extravagance
I’m shame I’m words bound
to a flirty mouth.
I don’t wear underpants.
My couch royal blue, water
unfrilled by wind.
My room a cosmos claimed
by a black hole—I’m Gravity; I swallow air.
It’s easy to attract a body.
Now I’m still handsome;
now I pull my shirt like old skin;
now it’s time to make time.
I put fire in the drink, ice
on the candle. My hair rosewater.
Then like light, violating night
pushes through the door.
Us Strangers
By the window I’m an open hand:
I want flowers, chocolate
and all the earthly things.
Outside, umbrellas pass in twos;
their bright colors tear open the air.
There’s sound, like waves from a sea
I should have known better.
For a moment I’m rain I’m the splashing
that breaks the city’s
monotonous tin—a drenched thought,
a drifting body: catch me,
read me like a face.
The waiter sails across the bar and brings
a smile to my table. Who
allows music to the room?
Then as if from a story that haunts me long
after finished, he walks through the door.