Principle 2: Catch & Store Energy
by Nicole Hatfield
A man in my family once threw a litter of kittens
into a burning fire. I imagine the kittens
mewling for milk—
for something else this man could not give.
The prayer candle in my house only burns
on the days that mark someone’s death.
The dry smell sticks to the throat
like soot to cheap wax.
It’s usually my mother who lights it, she’s good
at reminding us of our mortality.
A faded icon wraps itself around the candle’s face,
who was once the Virgin Mary
and sometimes I can make out the smudged blue
of a woman born from purity and sky.
When I was young enough to still wear white tights
but old enough to know what hell is,
I used to blow out the candles
in our church because it felt good.
To lean over their small flames and believe
my breath could anger the heavens,
I felt godly, like I was tasting
the flame of something stolen.