The Apologist

The Apologist

Heather Cadenhead

I.

My neighbor asks if I believe
rocks are sentient – if pebbles weep
when tossed across muddy ponds,
if I swerve on country roads
to spare myself the screams
of gravel. He answers for me:
I can no more believe a rock
thinks or feels than suppose
a tangle of cells has a soul.

II.

My husband pulls a radish up
by its roots, tossing it alongside
spearmint and wax pepper.
You’re a little rough
with those, I say.

III.

I recall Christ calming the waves,
anthropomorphic sea – God’s finger
pressed across an angry mouth.

IV.

I take orange peels to the compost pile.
My foot merges with jagged stone. I cry out,
a bloodroot sky my witness. Locusts moan
in tandem, twin laments cutting through
wreaths of smoke. My neighbor takes
a drag from his cigarette. The smog
is the place I catch my breath.

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Heather Cadenhead
Poet & Writer

The writing of Heather Cadenhead has been featured in The Rabbit Room, Radix Magazine, The Clayjar Review, and other publications. She publishes a monthly newsletter about mothering her non-speaking son through the lens of the Christian gospel.

Photography by Ejov Igor