Those Who Worship

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Please ignore the double spacing. I don't know how to remove it! 



Revision 4:

A Kind of Innocence 





There was a devout swaying 

when dad sidled down the doorstep, 

as if god had spat sanctity 

into the bow of the breeze. My cheeks 





glittered like sequins as he descended 

onto the pond-black road in that thin red coat 

he wore like skin. When his car coughed 

its final puff of smoke, I leaned 





on the fence by the barnyard pen, 

next to chickens and hogs and unholiness. 

I was nine then. I hadn’t yet learned 

that there is a kind of innocence gods steal





from those who worship. As dad floated 

like a goldfish towards the luster

of the sun’s flaxen rim, 

I shut my eyes in prayer.





Revision 3:

Those Who Worship





There was a devout swaying when dad 

sidled down the doorstep, as if god had 

spat sanctity into the bow of the breeze. 

My eyes glittered like sequins as he 





descended onto the pond-black road in 

that thin red coat he wore like skin. 

When his car coughed its final puff of 

smoke into the air, I leaned on the boards 





of the barnyard pen, next to the chickens 

and hogs and unholiness. I was nine 

years old then and I hadn’t yet learned 

that there is a kind of innocence gods 





steal from those who worship. As dad 

rattled away, swimming like a goldfish 

towards the luster of the sun’s flaxen rim, 

I shut my eyes in prayer.




Revision 2:

Those Who Worship





There was a devout swaying when dad 

sidled down the doorstep, as if god had coughed 

sanctity into the bow of the breeze 

and the creak of the threshold 

like a bloody tooth. My face glittered like 





a diamond as he descend onto 

the pond-black road in that thin red coat 

he wore like skin. When his car spat its 

final puff of ash into the air,





I leaned on the boards of the barnyard 

pen, squatting next to the chickens and hogs 

and unholiness. I was nine years old then and

I hadn’t yet learned that there is a kind of 





innocence gods steal from those who

worship. As dad clattered away, 

swimming like a goldfish towards the luster 

of the sun’s golden rim, I shut my eyes in prayer.



Original:

Those Who Worship


There was a devout 
swaying when dad 
strode down the doorstep, 
as if god had coughed 
sanctity into 
the bow of the breeze 
and the creak 
of the threshold 
like a bloody tooth 
into a latex glove. 
My face glittered like 


a sack of opaque gems
as dad descend onto 
the pond-black road 
in the thin red coat 
he wore like skin. 
When his car rubbed its 
final puff of cigarette 
ash into the air,


I leaned on the boards 
of the barnyard 
pen, squatting next 
to the chickens and hogs 
and unholiness. I was 
nine years old then and
I hadn’t yet learned that


there is a kind of 
innocence gods steal 
from those who
worship. As dad 
clattered away, 
swimming like a goldfish 
towards the luster 
of the sun’s golden rim,
I shut my eyes in prayer.

The strength of your poem to me is the sense of motion and place.
Creating a concrete sense of movement can really ground a piece and pull the reader in.
Without going line by line I would suggest you ask yourself “what is my overall theme” 
“What do I ultimately want the reader to get from reading my work?”
Some of your metaphors need some tightening up.
I like the lightness and atmosphere you create but I’m left a bit confused on the overall message.

Keep at it! Definitely some great beginnings here.