The Monk
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.
“In my isolation during the pandemic, my loved ones often visited me in my dreams. Somehow, dreams became the only way that I could be with others; this, I accepted as a means to survive. Throughout this entire poem, the speaker’s eyes are closed. She must use her other senses, as well as her intuition, to understand reality shifting. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, illusion and enlightenment, and perhaps even life and death, there is also acceptance.”
—Monica Sok
Monica Sok
