Evening pray

How to talk about death,

How to write letters without the name.

No one has ever told me the name of my grandpa.

He died

On a morning when my father hadn’t met my mom.

I come to know him

In “Amen” heard on New Year’s Eve.

Prayers with accents, aged candelabrum

With accents.

A pair of candles grow to be as tall as me.

On the night of seventeen,

I think of the possibility

Of sleeping in the dark.

In my dream: Grandfather holding scarlet ore

Walking towards me,

Melting, as if his palms are bleeding.

The young wooden knife of mine,

Carved a cross on the diary cover,

Imitating the glistening marks on grandmother’s calendar.

Bed towards the west, still

Tomb kissed by God.

Thus, I’m still a man who hasn’t had a religion,

Still awakens.

2022.4.6