I sit holding beads made
from some animal’s bones,
praying for guidance.

Something fails in me, leading me
to understand that there is no dogma
in a hawk’s view of God.

There’s no sect reserved
for wolf, no war-breeding schism
between salmon and trout,

no factions to be found
among the elk.
Worms are worms

without yearning
to become
Other Than Worms.

We’ve been opening animals
to stare at their entrails
for millenia,

seeking truths there;
we’ve made them into symbols
and messages, even into gods

themselves.
Not a one has ever
given up a story of infinity

except for one
that warns us against
feigning any identity

but our own, because God
won’t recognize us
if we’re too often in disguise.

Faith has failed in me. Alleluia.
I’m going outside to bury these beads, alleluia.
I will brush the dirt from my hands, alleluia,

will stand up straight
and call myself
myself.