Back to Issue Fifty-Five

Landscape with the Night

BY AIDEN HEUNG

I was left behind, a bent nail rusting

in the gutter. All the important people

had driven away in their expensive cars.

It was easier not to chase the next—

the next bus, the next village, the next self

to lose in the shimmer of another promise.

My hands held what I owned: a sales kit

of well-treated bricks; its black leather

bit into my palm. In my palm sweat

hungered for more sweat. 2022, East China,

I was young, I had a body to trade.

I had on a suit bigger than myself.

Gray-haired workers

sat at the curbs, smoked, shoes glued

to the bitumen road, their eyes like fingers

thumbing my face. They didn’t know I wore

their skin. In the air the rotten scent

of a long summer. I could feel

the dandruff in my hair. Evening began

to tease me with the weight of a pillow.

No motels in sight. I stood at a streetlamp,

waited for its russet glow to wash over me.

The factory, a throne against the encroaching dark.

I offered all I had—

The light came on. I reached out my hand,

wet and callused. A statue, throat full of ash.

Landscape with a Lost Coat

BY AIDEN HEUNG

I counted three months, a clock’s slow

blade, before a plane would take me

to another shore.

I was a salesman, I knew

how to dress to impress.

That day I wanted to impress him,

the seaside-town Van Gogh.

He called me brother. We were

the same age.

A thin mechanic, he knew

how to blend colors in a machine,

his clothes coated with polyester,

mica, and wax.

I liked his veiny hands.

By the pretreatment trough,

I was thinking of a poem,

the summer I wished you loved me

enough to kill me…

Hands still on the gauge,

he turned to me,

his face sharp in the smog.

I felt a rock falling through

the thin skin I called my body.

That night, arm on my shoulder,

mouth to my ear, he was all

the sounds in my arteries. I could swallow

the battered moon in his hair.

He moaned

words he would soon forget.

Later, I went out to the beach, alone.

The sea gnarled in dark. A lighthouse

looked with its astonished eye.

I lost my coat.

The next day I bought him breakfast:

soy milk, a bowl of congee.

Aiden Heung is a recent immigrant to the United States, originally from a Tibetan autonomous town in China. A finalist in the Disquiet Literary International Contest, he is also the winner of the Elinor Benedict Poetry Prize and the Levis Prize in Poetry. His debut collection, All There Is to Lose, selected by Ilya Kaminsky, will be published in March 2026 by Four Way Books. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Washington University.