Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

Not all women are meant to give birth,
at least not to anything human.
Some of us bear stones.
They arrive, like a human child,
through pain and tearing,
but never with hair,
though they may grow
moss behind the ears later.

Stones are needed.
They line the beds of rivers,
paths of mountains,
provide a cave or house to live in.
Stones can be carved and stacked;
they can crack in a fire,
take a polish in water,
but they mostly uphold or just sit.
They arrive, like a human child,
through pain and tearing
but soon settle down to their work:
leading long, calm, exemplary lives.

By Catherine Gonick

Catherine Gonick, although a nullipara, has had many beloved children brought into her life by her husband, with whom she also shares a marketing company and a start-up that turns organic waste into energy. Her obsessions include global feminism, all manner of multicultural issues, and the still rippling effects of her own Jewish/Catholic/atheist upbringing. She and her husband divide their time between New York and California, with occasional trips to Europe and the Middle East. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Boston Review, Caveat Lector, Crack the Spine and Crack the Spine Winter 2015 Anthology, Ginosko, Word Riot, Amarillo Bay, Forge, Sukoon, Soul-Lit, Jet Fuel Review, Jewish Women’s Literary Annual, and decomP. Her email: