I am asleep in bed when I smell incense.
My mother, joss sticks in her hands,
opens the window above my head.
She is waiting for the monk.
We hear him as he approaches,
a faint chanting outside. Not his voice
but a record player
playing the sound of his voice.
A knock on the door: my father
saying my name. Srei Mol.
But I cannot open the door for him.
I have not yet opened my eyes,
but I feel my father in the hall.
The smell of incense, stronger.
Did somebody die?
I scream with my mouth closed.
My father, at my bedside,
touches my hand, then my forehead.
He kisses the edge of my hair.
Copyright © 2026 by Monica Sok. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 12, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
