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. 


Twitter: @aidenheung


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.


Twitter: @aidenheung


Tip the author through PayPal xiangqiushi@live.com

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. 


Twitter: @aidenheung


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.


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