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Heather Cadenhead resides in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Her poetry has appeared in Illuminations, New Plains Review, Arbor Vitae, and other publications. She is the senior editor of The Basilica Review.



The Cracking of Bones Makes the Same Sound as Falling in Love

Lying by a highway, my bones—or something deeper
than bones—fill up with longing. There is always an ache
for more. You've gotten used to a heaven filled
with telephone poles, but I want open sky.

There are two things that I think, but don't say:
1. Falling in love feels like listening
to bones crack, and
2. This is embarrassing, but it hurts sometimes
to watch the cars pass by and not know
where they're going. You see,

if you learn the earth, you learn motion. Then
you learn that leaving is like descending
into the cleft of a mountain, slipping a hand
between rock and firmament—an exit
into an open mouth.


A Man Names Things

1.
Annette is what you call me.
I would tell you it's Jeanette
if not for the months I've gone
without correcting you.

I worry that you'll find my utility bill
or bank card and discover me.

2.
You call me Annie as a sweet nickname
and ask me to sit with you in the grass.
But it's so long, I say, which is
my excuse for everything.

3.
With a cough (a businessman,
how-about-that-merger sort of cough),
you offer to check me for chiggers.

A readjustment of the straps
on my dress, a baring of knee
so you can look inside
the crook of my leg. You pluck
the things off so delicate,
like lifting communion bread
out of a silver church tin.

4.
I accidentally signed a check
Annette. The cashier had to void
the whole transaction. This is
getting out of hand.

5.
I decide to do it gradually,
as if on accident. The way it happened
the first time. I leave my driver's license
next to the book I'm loaning you,
a note from my mom: Jeannie,
water the plants. 
Maybe it's too late.

6.
No word from you.
I brew coffee, black and bitter,
to drink on the porch—
near enough to smell the rain,
but not so close that I feel it.

I am starting to wonder
if you've run off
with Annette, who is
starting to remind me
of the sea witch who steals
the young mermaid's voice,
tricking the prince into believing
he has the right girl. Part of me
wants to ask if he's bothered
looking her in the face.