On the path, children, flighty, freed
from masks; a rustle of words,
a wash of laughter,

and a breeze chasing echoes.
I’m jealous of them, who clutch now
like never, of how

each day can so re-make the undone,
like drawing a face on a mirror.
I remember ice still feathered

on my window last night, a ritual,
and across the street
the cordoned-off door, peat –

colored, one that could have opened
to a magnolia. All morning
I’ve been looking

for them, thought I could find
more in the aperture of dawn;
thought I’d be lost;

then the sun shifts higher, and ascends
from a tangling pink.

Aiden Heung (He/They) is a Chinese poet born in a Tibetan Autonomous Town, currently living in Shanghai. He is a Tongji University graduate. His poems written in English have appeared in The Missouri Review, Orison Anthology, Parentheses, Crazyhorse, Black Warrior Review among other places. He also translates poetry from Chinese to English, his translations were recently published in Columbia Journal and Cordite Poetry Review. He can be found on Twitter @aidenheung.

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