Me and my luggage, two fugitives escaping
the lock-down. Still, night chases
at our heels and howls. All yellow lamps
have turned their faces, now cobwebbed
in shades. Cold pricks my lips and drills
my breath, until it hardens into white and glues
my mouth. No taxi; my phone begs
for recharge. I have left behind a lesion
of buildings, but I won’t know what can aid
my flurried steps. The road sprawls
like a snake with a broken spine. I halt
at the curb, to my right the sea unable to tear
itself from the land, like a stranded mammal
tumbling back to waves, which break.
Further off, a fish-boat moans; its light
drifts to the far end, abandoning me
to this old rib-and-skull world. No escape,
however I try. Here I bury my hope
and discard the coordinates. No one will find it;
let sand crabs pick it clean like they do
to any rotten fish. Soon the palish dawn,
color of the drowned.
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 Australian Poetry Journal, 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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