I couldn’t believe so, but I remembered
the crooked tree spreading
its canopy like hands in prayer.
Ever since, I avoided the dust road.
Those were long summer days, filled
with the burnt scent of sap.
Far off, the bruised shadow
of our village, whose walls had dulled into dust.
At night, the snaked roots of grass hissed in wind.
I sat in a wicker chair and imagined myself in water.
Night sky was a frozen lake. Light, unperturbed,
sank like an unmoored mood.
A leaf swayed, as if wanted to speak but knew better.
I pretended I was an adult. It was easier.
Sometimes before morning, a dog barked, then more joined.
I asked him to come home.
Aiden Heung (He/They) is a Chinese poet born in a Tibetan Autonomous Town, currently living as a traveling coating salesman. If he is not on the road selling water-repellent solutions, you can always find him writing poems in one of the Costa Cafes in Shanghai. His poems written in English have appeared in The Australian Poetry Journal, The Missouri Review, Poetry International, Tupelo Quarterly, Crazyhorse, Black Warrior Review among other places.He can be found on Twitter @aidenheung.