the chicken go talk to ghosts

in the morning i let the chickens out 
& they run to the shadow forest between
our house & the fields. in there, they
begin their daily rituals. i try to give
them privacy. i know when i worship
it is strange & bruising. still, i notice them
from time to time, in a circle around
the hips of a tree. this country is
a project of violent forgetting. why 
don't we talk about how the birds
have spirits they visit too? have bright 
& dazzling hungers? one morning i ask
the chickens if they would let me join them.
they are reluctant. the rooster does not
trust me. remembers the day we pinned him
after he bit my ankles. i feel ashamed of it
& i am not quite sure why. maybe because
i do not want to be a tyrant. the hens 
feel differently. one of the cinnamon queens
recounts the afternoon we washed her
in the tub. stroked her head until 
all the dirt was free of her feathers. 
i follow them. get low to the earth
& everything smells ripe & clay. i cannot
tell you the rest because they asked me 
to believe in bodies. that secrets are
crucial to holding onto the ghosts.
i can tell you though that the ghosts 
were everything i wanted. feathered &
tall. necks like crowbars. the rooster called out
to keep us close. when dusk arrived,
i followed them all in the procession
back to the coup. did not join them.
walked back into the house. heard the rooster
call out one last time to the night.