Stonework is published by Houghton College, a Christian liberal arts college located in New York’s rural Genesee Valley. Stonework seeks a diverse mix of mature and emerging voices in fellowship with the evangelical tradition. Published twice a year, the journal reflects the arts community at Houghton College where excellence in music, writing, and the visual arts has long been a distinctive.

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  • Issue 6
    Poetry by Paul Willis and Thom Satterlee. Fiction and interview with Lori Huth. Essay by James Wardwell, and student poets from Christian campuses.
  • Issue 5
    Poetry by Susanna Childress and Debra Rienstra. Fiction excerpt by Emilie Griffin. Art from Houghton's 2007 presidential inauguration and a forum on women writing.
  • Issue 4
    Matthew Roth--new poems. Diane Glancy--from One of Us and an interview. John Tatter-on gardens and poetry. The Landscapes of John Rhett. Stephen Woolsey--on the poetry of Jack Clemo. James Wardwell--on Herrick.
  • Issue 3
    Poetry by Julia Kasdorf, Robert Siegel and Sandra Duguid. Fiction by Tom Noyes. The portraits of Alieen Ortlip Shea. An anthology of Australian Poets
  • Issue 2
    Thom Satterlee - Poems from Burning Wycliff with an appreciation by David Perkins. Alison Gresik - new fiction and an interview. James Zoller - Poems from Living on the Floodplain.
  • Issue 1
    Luci Shaw — new poems with an appreciation by Eugene H. Peterson & Hugh Cook — new fiction and an interview

Tuesday, May 01, 2007


~Matthew Roth

Who are you? Me too.
Who are you? Me too.

In the winter half light, each breath
silvers, falls, as our feet fall—
we’re barely married half a year—
across the bone-hard drifts
of our back acre. We’re moving
toward the dark the border woods reserve
against the twin-bright pall
of snow and moon.
At the edge, just where the ragged
underbrush creeps out to claim
another crust of clearing, we stop.
I call. Everything listens.

Through the tangle of shadows,
a little east and far off, an echo,
then another, nearer still.
We dare not move, though I feel
your hand in the crook of my arm
squeeze a little tighter,
and I recall our first time
owling, how you joked
that I was “wooing” you,
and later, when the wood I’d stood up
wouldn’t burn, you smiled and warmed
your hands above it anyway.

The shadows shiver a little, deep,
and then the louder, clearer song again,
strangely human, as if the owl sympathized
with our rough, inadequate transcription,
our trick against forgetting.

Who are you?

I feel your hand, strangely warm,
on my arm. I open my eyes.
You are there, half-asleep beside me
in the bed where we have slept
together almost ten full years.
The red line on the monitor leaps.

Me too.

It’s Silas, not yet two, calling out
from his crib the words he’s learned
from Birding by Ear. This is his favorite,
the Great Horned Owl, a kind of solo
call and response. Hearing this way,
in the blue-black fog of six o’clock,
awakened from my careless dream,
I’m almost overcome by fear
and love. In his tiny, sing-song liturgy,
I hear his certain loneliness, his waking
to a future full of empty, dimlit rooms.
But also this: his perfect faith
that somebody at last will come
and lift him into morning.

I rise before he calls again,
and when he sees my shadow fall
across the crack beneath his door
he chirps, in his new voice, my name,
the name my place in life has earned,
and I, like some great bird a-wing,
swoop down on him, whispering
his own name in return.