chicken worship

the chickens do not believe in god
which is a relief. on sunday they are
their most heathenish. i find them
with faces covered in sweet guts after
stealing the neighbor's wine berries. 
i too have stumbled upon a blush 
of fruit in the otherwise tangled thicket.
i once asked a boyfriend if he believed 
in god because i wanted to sound deep.
i instantly regretted it. there was no answer
that would have satisfied me. i was nineteen
& had not lived with chickens for years. 
he waffled a little but in the end he admitted
he did not believe in god. his response did not
feel like a relief. more like a disappointment.
maybe i wanted someone to tell me,
"no there has to be a great orange juice jug in the sky."
of course the chickens worship. they
venerate the soil which they cull for glinting beetles
& they speak to the sun like a fatherless eye.
i join them. i have always tried on faiths
but the chickens' practice is the one most suited to me.
i love to step over places in the yard which
they have already turned with their beaks 
& claws. the softened earth 
beneath my feet. they make my want
to go barefoot again just like i used to
when i was small. the callouses stayed
with me. then i go to yell at the sun.
like the rooster, i call, "when are you
coming home?" faith is often about 
returns. the chickens are certain that this land
will learn them just in time to bury them.
by that time though, the dirt will not be strange.
a familiar scent. i hear the rooster let the hens
know he's found an angel. they gather.
the sun dissolves in our mouths. 
i join them even if only on the outskirts.