THE VOTIVE CANDLE AND THE PLAY DOH

 CANDLE AND PRAYER

                --for the poet, and for the pastor 

During the time for quiet

the woman in robes

passes by rows of people

sitting next to each other

in chairs, saying,

Take one of these

balls of play doh

I made in my kitchen

and choose the color

you like best. When

the tray of home-made

memories comes to me, I pick out

a green one, all of these

died with food coloring,

and I remember

my mother

setting them out like a rainbow

when we were children

and playing science.

Blue, green, red, yellow,

tiny brown bottles

on the North Dakota

card table in winter.

My fingers cracked

because of the cold.

I place my thumb

in the middle of the ball

warming the dough

until I can smell

flour and oil

coming from my hands

filling the chapel,

and as my nostrils fill

with the rising, what,

bread? its oven-rich aroma,

I’m slow to become

aware of the others singing--

they have left me behind,

the green ball has flattened

into something

between plate and bowl,

shallow, its circumference

in my palm, small enough

to fit into a child’s dollhouse,

much smaller than

the votive candles

lit by the altar. Just

yesterday, a set

of four votive candles

in the mail

sent by a friend.

Votive candles!

Karen and I said together.

But I don’t know the word!

I cried. Votive candles!

Karen says again, and

I can still hear my cry,

I know the thing,

but I don’t know the word!

Listening again, hearing the singing,

returning to the room.

Did I become a child

to hear my mother’s voice?

Was it finding the root,

Sacred act, vow and promise?

Did this happen lighting candles?

After the others leave,

I walk my investment in play

to the altar. This object

offered in fulfillment

of vows, even as clay dries

and cracks, asking

again about devotion and light.

Jim Bodeen

11-15 December 2023