Aiden Heung

Home » Issue 88 » Aiden Heung

Aiden Heung

Spring’s Last Rose

I have on my skin the blood
warmth of a shredded sun
when I see him, who leans
at the gate and his pink shirt

flows smooth to his waist,
like water on a March day.
But it’s the end of May,
the plum-rain month begins

to fatten; what has come
will soon abandon me. I can’t
tear my eyes from him
and leave a painful hollow,

where beauty falls
into memory— The last silver
of spring heaps at his feet,
almost too fine, too obsessive,

almost like the sun I want.
He doesn’t see me.


Aiden Heung reads “Spring’s Last Rose”

Aiden Heung (He/They) is a Chinese poet born in a Tibetan Autonomous Town, currently living in Shanghai. He holds an MA from Tongji University. His words appeared or are forthcoming in The Australian Poetry Journal, The Missouri Review, The Cordite Poetry Review, Poet Lore, Parentheses, The Brooklyn Review, among other places. Read more about him at He can be found at twitter @aidenheung