Issue 7 November 2015


Editor’s Comments

Issue 7 celebrates Allegro's first birthday. It is packed with poems about festivals, birthdays, weddings and anniversaries as well as a range of off theme poems. This is the last issue in the current format. From 2016 Allegro will be published four times a year with two general issues with no set theme and two for themed poems only. In the meantime celebrate a tremendous first year!

Sally Long


Prairie Easter

Morning glory over the door, white star at its throat,
lavender-shaded like those Easter dresses
my sisters and I wore.
We squinted into the spring sunshine,
my hands on their shoulders,
stars flying through the afternoon sky,
stars that I knew were there
even though no one else could see them.
Earth circled the sun and I felt it rotating,
its slow path circulating down and around
while the morning glory sank its deep roots
into Illinois prairie soil.
My father’s shadow stretched out
in spreading day so I would never forget
he had been there, unseen but seeing,
snapping that picture so we, my sisters and I,
would always be there in our morning glory dresses,
always eleven and six and three,
pinned to that paper forever.
Stars wheeling in the afternoon sky –
remember I was the only one who could see them –
kept me from flying off ,
kept me there, feet planted in the grass,
in patent leather Mary Janes
with white socks just like my sisters’.
Those white socks would trigger
the first battle between my father and me
next Easter because by then I would be twelve
and begging for nylons.
But at that moment I was happy
to wear an Easter dress,
still his young girl who hadn’t begun to fight. 

Lisa Rizzo


Though doubts have surfaced in fresh
April morning greened light,
this rusted wrench remains valued,
though the cheap white plastic
chair with one mangled leg
is more than ready to be carted away.
Piled close-by, ready for the dump,
many once essential possessions sit tired,
the energy of creation forgotten,
glossy packaging long ago discarded,
painted surfaces dull, dented.
Broken buckets are already gone,
and an ancient rake and old paint
and insulation sleep in landfill chemistry
with unlabeled cassettes, National Geographics,
cantaloupe guts, dried lasagne, diapers, cat litter.
What else is trash?  Five once perfect
yellow ducklings discovered drowned
in the kids swimming pool, fooled by shimmering
water in easy blue plastic, with no escape.
The dripping struggles I didn’t see
still alive in slow replay—the young
giving in/the tired removal that exhausted
belief their hatching once jump started
permanent spring growth.  A graying
alien head shakes, and all has aged
in the turning away from soft bodies
drenched and stiffening/diminished
stark deaths congealing.  Nothing to do
but save the  two survivors first discovered
in panicked struggle in mirrored water—
now walking with confidence on
baby stilts to the pond/young enough
to escape memory’s tattoo.  From a proper
distance no imprinted pain seems
glued to their eager eyes.

Mark Vogel

Translucent Treasure

There is a measure of beauty in the 
translucent treasure of sea glass, 

that which tumbles and twists its way
into a smoothed stone

with each pull of the persistent tide, 
tumbling and twisting into something 

other than what it is
and yet so far from what it will become 

as it succumbs to the forceful hand that changes it, 
all the while folding its sharp edges 

into itself, always moving forward, 
never the same again, while we continue to stride past 

its washed-up beauty on the shore, 
even though we too are made of glass; 

doomed to smooth over into something beautiful, 
only to bury deeper below the surface of the sand

like the missing puzzle piece, 
the token of a completed portrait, now lost. 

Nicole Marte

Summer’s End

Summer clings to the last of its green,
although its face wears a new complexion.
Days of heat now recede and the bees,
their season past, say goodnight to their Queen.
It’s only time until breezes give way to winds
and leaves unwind. Only time until yesterday      
becomes nostalgia’s dream and what remains
its homeless cousin.

Peter Serchuk

Love Poem to Brooklyn

Buses come every five minutes, the stops
a few blocks apart. In all weather, they flow
and let people pour out, then fill up again.
No need to learn to drive or own a car,
the buses, trains, taxis, and two strong legs
can take you there—

to Nathan’s, Coney Island, or to fish
in Sheepshead Bay. To school, and two part-time
jobs, where you count candy bars and change,
or check out groceries, and strive to be
the fastest, best cashier in there.

You’re fifteen, fearless of the hordes, ignore
men on subway cars with newspaper tents
on their laps. Your ice skates on your shoulder,
you march through Prospect Park at night, unafraid
to walk the darkened paths to skate in circles
until you’re tired of being there.

Churches, Italian markets that deliver,
deli franks, corned beef, knishes, bagels,
the alleyways and open lots, found flower pots.
Tree-lined streets, two-family homes with one
car apiece, seemed enough in ‘63.
Botanical Gardens, zoo, parks, thirty
miles of waterfront, library with curved
wall, wide steps to welcome reading there.

In Brooklyn, you go to college, bus ride
like all those before, and do your homework
on the way. Vigilance not necessary. 
The campus green, cafeteria’s harsh light,
your accent’s normal here. Ahead of you
the years stretch out, striped banner bright
of success along the way from there to here.

Joan Mazza 

​"Poor ol' Bastard"

The tattoo on his arm
read 'Top Notch'
in faded cursive

a tuft of gray hair 
stood up on the back of his head,
gray eyebrows too,
stray hairs curling into
the canyons
of his forehead wrinkles

his smile is short a few teeth
and those he has are chipped and yellowed

he does not look like a man
who is privileged enough to have
top notch liquor
top notch women
top notch housing

but, by god, 
he probably
deserves some.

Madison Baldwin


Dad grew a beard for our state’s
centennial celebration. I was eight
at the time, and befuddled as to why
his whiskers sprouted a shade of rusty
iron ochre, while the hair on his head
remained a glossy Brylcreem ebony.

For that most hallowed of occasions,
we were paroled from school
and there was a parade down on main
street. I recall watching the town fire
engine and Fighting Hornet High
School Marching Band pass by Pinky’s
Piggly Wiggly and Shaw’s Vickers
station, where well-seized opportunities
provided free bottles of Orange Crush
via the busted Coke machine out front.

A special bronze medallion was minted 
that year showcasing the state seal,
several stalks of ripened wheat, and some
other cool inscriptions. It fell behind my
bedroom dresser. Mom's vacuum sucked
it up in a dust bunny.

Kevin Heaton


Two thousand years before our birth,
societies siphoned the cerebellum,
salted the skeleton,
built homes for the bones.

We are the archaeologists of our own osteology
plucking our sternums from the siroccos.
We paint our eyes sockets with silt and side-stream smoke,
line our lungs with kohl.

Truth is the feather down your throat;
Cleopatra left a letter
but you died alone,
heart replaced with a hollow comb.

Nobody painted your body on a bed of gold,
removed your frontal cortex with oxidized iron tongs.

Nobody figured out what kind of poison trampled your heart
but your sister still had to buy a black dress.

You were the one who weighed your virtue with clanking scales,
but they still buried you empty
and I turned away after.

Laura Ingram

Boomer Babies

Ike was in the White House: Macmillan
on Downing Street, Adenauer in Berlin,
and Fidel had just parked his jeep in Havana.

Betty dropped out of eleventh grade to go live
with an aunt in Taney County. She magically
reappeared nine months later.

We had three tv channels: one was snowy,
one unfocused without adjusting the rabbit
ears, and on the clear one; Ben Cartwright
rode Rawhide through the Twilight Zone.

Debbie C. went missing from tenth grade.
I wondered, had someone killed her?

Mom always managed to fill our 1958 two-
toned Plymouth wagon with groceries
for thirty-three dollars, including: bottles
of Chocolate Soldier, candy, and on occasion;
some Silly Putty or a Duncan Yo-Yo. Bread
cost .20 cents, gas .25, and dad made .90 cents
an hour.

Next, my sister’s best friend Mary left
to visit her grandmother in Harrison. She
was gone for months.

Nixon and Nikita sat down at a kitchen
table for a chat. At school we dove under
our desks for nuclear civil defense drills
after swallowing polio vaccine sugar cubes.
The Dalai Lama fled Tibet for India, and
Ben Hur rode his chariot across the big screen.

Mary miraculously returned to school nine
months later in the fall to repeat the same
grade she’d left. Shortly thereafter, her
parents adopted a baby girl.

Kevin Heaton

The Warp
Thoughts on verse 3.6.1 of the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad*

We stood at the tapestries
I thought they were spiritual
            ‘upon what is this whole world woven?’ gargi asked
was he thinking of unicorns
  the whole time?
            ‘on what, then, is water woven
            back and forth?’
my connection was to the sea and for once
he would take me to the beach
between us- just the wind
            ‘on what, then, is air
            woven back and forth?’
he thought of summer mornings he had missed
 days he could have taken her to watch the sun rise
No, they would have met
        at the lookout. She was not in love with cemeteries.
            ‘on what, then, is sun woven
            back and forth?’
she must have written odes to something other
than resilience. She must have finished odes
            ‘on what, then, is moon
            woven back and forth?’
We both missed the sky in pennsylvania.
the sky was that moon, eerie, in my window
and the stars I saw from the seats in the car we slept in
not wanting to grow up away from rain, to the world of Men
            ‘on what, are the worlds of the stars woven
            back and forth?’
together they know what makes
a star a star
but in his eyes I think sometimes
            ‘on what, then, are the world of the gods
            woven back and forth?’
gargi vacaknavi fell silent.
            *translation used: Olivelle, Patrick. The Early Upanishads. Oxford:
                                                Oxford University Press, 1998. pg. 85.

Rashi Rohatgi

My Birthday in the Desert

Glow bugs string their parabolas
scooping like a swoop neck swing dance

and they glitter their greedy bodies all over my glass

sometimes I let my lips sit on its edge
like dangled feet in a pool that ripple and wrinkle the face of the moon
I go cross-eyed watching

Our friends’ porch is better than ours
It’s easier to see the desert underwater
their saguaro beds of coral and the back-stroking scorpions

frozen loaves of bread in their freezer
we dance to toaster chimes and olive oil songs
we burn cakes in their oven and fan frantic out the smoke

you hold my waist like the handles of a suitcase
and we travel around the island
kitchen counter

I was three, twenty-two, sixty-four
in the camber of your hands

Amanda Pfeifer

Green Skirts
after tunes on “Open Hearth” by 
Mary and Andrew MacNamara

The green-gowned girl off to California, 
peacock feathers sewn onto her collar, 
irises iridescent as a prism. 
A bag of spuds peeled and left behind. 
Leave the harvest, leave home 
before the morning star sets
, she's murmuring 
to the boy in the wood, who's fast asleep back in his bed, 
his blood and lymph not bestirred 
except when dreams take him to her room. 
Glad she's not in bad humor, her mood is not melancholy, 
she whispers Holy Mother, sighs the sign of the cross. 
Vapors falter over the bog 
like steam from the kettle she boiled earlier.

Cathryn Shea

Total look

She comes as starlight
Steady stream
Of yesterday
Never, ever, here today
To see her requires
No obedient scope
No sense of stars
Of cunning configurations.
She shines merely
For the sake of seen
And seen, discovered.
Her light speeds lonely
Blinding search
Faster than dark;
Its purpose and soul
To convey a blink,
A tearing eye.
She comes so far
Never to know
She has been seen
And seen, held.

Timothy L. Rodriguez

Early December

The small and grey
fingers of trees
sliced into half inch joints
by the horizontal blinds.
Beyond them and above,
their touch is pressed
onto early winter sky,
lightened grey, white
with the smear
of approaching snow.
It is early December.
The horses may still be seen
and the lake still rushes
its last dash before sleep.
As the darkness over-
takes the room, sleep
settles slowly, with
a preface of memory.
Some time ago there were plans
that had to be put off
till after the late winter’s frost.

Somewhere in the muffled distance
of closed and frosted windows,
a single-engine plane
propels its lone rider
to whiter and more breathless heights.
Above us, he rejoices in the chilly clouds.
Without a glance at gauges
he knows where he is
and feels confident of reaching
his destination.

Anthony DeGregorio

For Evren, A Groom Today

You’ll feel it soon enough:
a strange woman on the street
who seems to know you in a glance.

Perhaps you already have.
She’s standing there at the Friends
Cafe where you walk in Istanbul.

April will have passed into winter
so quickly. You’ll have forgotten
summer and fall's red spectacle.

You’ll be carrying a plastic bag
with bread, a newspaper, and she’ll
tantalize and haunt you, and suddenly

seize you. It will happen in an instant.
There will be no pause to ponder why.
Around you the birds will be still.

Beneath your jacket you will sense
this catastrophic pull, this sweet
madness, and by the time you get home

it will be too late. The life you held
will be in her hands. The marriage
you've made she’ll unmake, brick

by brick, all the way down
to the dinner plates, the silverware,
the candy dishes still in their boxes.

Carl Boon

Flying Kimonos
          (for Martha Ronk)

Sheets become the wind’s kimono.
Tiny dinosaurs and rabbits escape the earth,
slide off their cotton terrains,
unhinge gravity’s latch and
unravel a course towards heaven.
A surge of air twists the linen
into an odd but perfect fit
     over wind.
Standing on swings
the twins lose their cries,
lick away tears
from faces and sleeves
and gaze upward open-mouthed.
The sky dresses and undresses itself
in freshly washed laundry.
Red and yellow animals float before the sun,
freckle the pudgy cloud cheeks.
Brother and sister unpin the socks, the panties,
     the bras and blouses
          and launch them from
               “The Clubhouse” roof
encouraging other gusts to dress,
to swirl the clean clothes
into gliding wardrobes.

Dress yourself, Wind.  Dress now!
Put on our clothes, Wind.  Do it now,

Anthony DeGregorio 

Gift for an anniversary

Not a distant da Vinci landscape, 
or a Turner - although some days
boundaries of sky and sea are unclear.
Neither will a snow scene by Brueghel do
with valleys and hills held fast in bleakness.
Instead, a watercolour we created ourselves.
Tipping and tilting the paint we allowed it
to pool, dry in its own time or bleed as it chose.
We layered crimson on viridian on burnt sienna
so all we could make out was black. Mixing
pigment with earth, we left it outside to be
washed by rain and forgotten in the sun.
Still the white paper shone through, amazing us
with how the pattern of colours glowed.  

Yvonne Baker

Breaking Glass

“Wow, he did that with authority,”
a friend commented in an e-mail
after I forwarded the six-second video
my sister-in-law had recorded on her cellphone
of my son-in-law stamping on the wineglass,
the final ritual in the wedding ceremony
before he and my daughter
officially became husband and wife.

I try to remember myself
stepping on the foil-wrapped glass
at my own wedding on a cold February day
at a synagogue in Newton, Mass.,
about a third of a century ago,
in an era when typewriters ruled
the office and the study,
but no details come back,
memory as fragile as the glass –
the vows, the lives
the act is said to symbolize.

Charles Rammelkamp

I Approach My 70th Year

I approach my 70th year.

From behind.
So as not
to frighten it away.

J.R. Solonche


Each year on my birthday
an old admirer sends flowers.

The house fills up with the smell
of dahlias, lilac, peonies. He sends them

to remind me how I sundered his heart
his prickly, bleeding heart

and how I crippled his life.
They remind me of gloom

of the hothouse orchid
he needed me to be

with him, the keeper of my air and light. I lied,
told him I loved another.

I fling open the door to unscented air,
to watch the dappled late afternoon light

slip through the clutch of the maple’s leaves
across the lintel of my latest love’s brow.

Liz Dolan

We talked of what years do to us.
It was a fairly average day.
We made love with old, familiar lust.

We put our daughter on the bus.
We said the things we had to say.
We talked of what years do to us.

We had appointments at the dentist,
for cleaning and for x-ray.
We made love with old, familiar lust.

No one called. No one made a fuss.
The January sky was gray.
We talked of what years do to us.

You returned a nightgown, Christmas
gift too big. It was on the way.
We made love with old, familiar lust.

Did we kiss? I think we did kiss.
But anyway...  So anyway...
We talked of what years do to us
and made love with old, familiar lust.

J.R. Solonche


My house is percolating happily,
it's fat and full of people.
it zaps the bits of snow like insects (“don't
you dare approach my humans.”)
Hiding us;
we laugh at how ferocious.

But inside
we all enjoy the halo;
feel ensconsed
while listening to the steam pipes gurgling
as if the house were floating,

or as if
our own small afterglow could melt the world.
It waits for this all summer:

Full again.”

Kathryn Jacobs

On my fifty-fourth birthday
spring equinox

On my birthday
I camped at Las Negras.
Easter was late that year:
the first day of Spring
eluded formal celebration.

Spanish sparrows skirmished
with perpetual wind tearing
down steep-sided thirsty valley
as olive, eucalyptus and pine
sucked sparse nourishment
from caress of late March rain.

On my birthday
our tent shook in off-shore gusts.
I cooked fish and garbanzos
in a rich Catalan, garlic stew,
drank cheap, sharp Cava and
watched rainbows shimmer on a vernal sea.

Helen May Williams

Red Salute

Glorious Thirty Years
of Left Front Government
emblazoned on the tram.

Tim Youngs

Happy Halloween

We unearth quick disasters
that come by seeking a road back
from the red edge of the world 
while reading an unreliable map—

A rain of dull diamonds befalls
our twilight that never ends—
The ticking clock heart wanders
in aimless working of the body—

We are made of invisible bones
and the light that comes from
a hidden synaptic re-echo of all 
that we can re-member of ancestors—

So how is it to be lost in broad 
daylight, out of control with
every wind that blows us toward
a crossroads of something missing?

Don’t forget to go home at the end
of a day of being scared nameless--
what light comes from inside
surprises us to orange hope.
David Anthony Sam

Art of the Party

Comfort zone, no
where in sight, retreat

To the bathroom, again
regroup, in the mirror

              *  *
Even as host, suspect
attendees are liars pretenders—
not really having a grand time

Though chips & dips are all devoured,
laughs track authentic, smiles genuine
enough, there is much to recycle

Mark Danowsky


Images collide, chased by a niagara of words
and nonwords. Every outing is a buffet
in an al fresco of experience. This season,
there is no struggle. I have to shift my salver
to the stations: stewards fix the scarcities.
Sometimes the proportions aren’t right
but that isn’t worth a wrangle. Nothing is:  
when rain has weight, wetness is beatitude.
May every bash be a banquet in this riff of rainstorms.

Sanjeev Sethi


Yvonne Baker has been writing for several years and has been published in numerous magazines, including Acumen, Envoi, Orbis and Brittle Star. She has recently had a poem commended in the Second Light competition.

Madison Baldwin survives on a steady diet of dark humor, coffee in various forms, local produce and Marlboro 27's. Her poetry has appeared in the Sequoya Review. She lives in Tennessee, USA and runs 

Carl Boon lives and works in Istanbul, Turkey. Recent or forthcoming poems appear in Posit, The Tulane Review, Badlands, The Blue Bonnet Review, and many other magazines.

Mark Danowsky’s poetry has appeared in Alba, Cordite, Grey Sparrow, Mobius, Shot Glass Journal, Third Wednesday and other journals. Mark is originally from the Philadelphia area, but currently resides in North-Central West Virginia. He works for a private detective agency and is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal.

Anthony DeGregorio has a master’s degree in Writing from Manhattanville College, where he has been teaching expository writing for seventeen years.

Liz Dolan’s first poetry collection, They Abide,was nominated for The Robert McGovern Prize, Ashland University. Her second, A Secret of Long Life, nominated for a Pushcart, has been published by Cave Moon Press. An eight-time Pushcart nominee and winner of Best of the Web, she was a finalist for Best of the Net 2014.

Kevin Heaton lives and writes in California. His work has appeared in a number of publications including: Guernica, Rattle, Slice Magazine, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Adroit Journal, and Verse Daily. He is a Best of the Net, Best New Poets, and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee.

Laura Ingram is a tiny girl with large glasses. She has been published in Cactus Heart Review, The Crucible, Gravel Magazine, Canvas Lit, and several others. Laura was featured as a national fiction winner in the Sierra Nevada Review's 2014 fiction contest. She has received four gold and two silver keys as well as several honorable mentions in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards for young people in America. She is a recent graduate of Appomattox Regional Governor's School for the Arts and Technology. She enjoys most books and all cats. 

Kathryn Jacobs is a poet, professor, medievalist, and editor of The Road Not Taken, A Journal of Formal Poetry. Her fifth volume of poetry, Wedged Elephant, has just been published by Karen Kelsay Press.  She has also published 20, a book on Marriage Contracts with the University Press of Florida, and almost 200 poems in journals that range from Measure and The New Formalist to The Xavier Review, New South and Whiskey Island. 

 Nicole Marte is a twenty-four-year-old Quinnipiac University alumni. She is an ELA 7-12 teacher with a B.A. in English and a Master's in the Arts of Teaching. She loves writing in her spare time and is inspired by nature and all of the ambiguities of life. 

Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and has been a Pushcart nominee. Author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Kestrel, Slipstream, American Journal of Nursing, The MacGuffin, Mezzo Cammin, Buddhist Poetry Review, and The Nation.

Amanda Pfeifer is a middle school math teacher, residing in Tucson, Arizona. When she is not grading papers or planning lessons, she enjoys writing poetry and music, drawing blind contours of objects around the apartment, and going for walks in the hot desert. 

Charles Rammelkamp's latest book is MATA HARI: EYE OF THE DAY (Apprentice House).  He edits the online literary journal, The Potomac - and is the Prose Editor at BrickHouse Books in Baltimore, MD, where he lives.

Lisa Rizzo is the author of In the Poem an Ocean (Big Table Publishing, 2011).  Her work has appeared in such journals as 13thMoon, Earth’s Daughters, RiverLit and Calyx Journal. Two poems received the 2011 BAPC poetry prize. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Timothy L. Rodriguez was a journalist when newspapers counted, he is a poet when poetry doesn’t count for much, and he is a novelist when the fate of fiction is uncertain His novel—Guess Who Holds Thee?—is available on Amazon. His most recent novel Never Is Now is being serialized in the UK at

Rashi Rohatgi teaches cultural studies at Skidmore College’s London campus and through the Council on International Educational Exchange. Her writing on comparative world poetry can be found in Wasafiri, Matatu, and Comparative Critical Studies, among others, and her fiction can be found in The Misty Review. She lives in London.

David Anthony Sam is the grandson of Polish and Syrian immigrants. He has written poetry for over 40 years and has two collections, including Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves (2014). He lives in Virginia USA with his wife and life partner, Linda, and currently serves as president of Germanna Community College. 

Peter Serchuk's poems have appeared in a wide variety of US literary journals including Hudson Review, American Poetry Review, Poetry, North American Review and other journals. He is the author of two collections: Waiting for Poppa at the Smithtown Diner and All That Remains. He lives in Los Angeles, California.

Sanjeev Sethi is author of Suddenly For Someone, 1988 and Nine Summers Later, 1997. His  poems have found a home in The London Magazine, The Fortnightly Review, Solstice Literary Magazine, Off the Coast Literary Journal, 3 Quarks Daily, Lemon Hound, Poetry Australia, Eastlit, Indian Literature, The Statesman, The Hindu, and elsewhere. Bloomsbury is publishing, This Summer and That Summer, his third collection. He lives in Mumbai.

Cathryn Shea’s poetry is forthcoming in Absinthe, Main Street Rag, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Permafrost, and Sonic Boom, and has appeared in Gargoyle,MARGIE, Poet Lore, Quiddity, Soundings East, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Snap Bean, is by CC.Marimbo (2014). Cathryn is in the 2012 anthology Open to Interpretation: Intimate Landscape. Cathryn served as editor for Marin Poetry Center Anthology and worked as a writer at Oracle.

J.R. Solonche, four-time Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s. He is co-author of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books).

Mark Vogel has published short stories in Cities and Roads, Knight Literary Journal, Whimperbang, SN Review, and Our Stories Poetry has appeared in Poetry Midwest, English Journal, Cape Rock, Dark Sky, Cold Mountain Review, Broken Bridge Review and other journals. He is currently Professor of English at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina, and directs the Appalachian Writing Project.

Helen May Williams is Associate Fellow in the Department of English, University of Warwick.  Her poetry has been published in numerous small press publications, including Hearing Voices, Horizon, Raw Edge, Roundyhouse, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Ink, Sweat and Tears and the collection Bluebeard’s Wives, Heaventree Press 2007. She received a special commendation in the Welsh Poetry Competition 2015

Tim Youngs teaches at Nottingham Trent University. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in, among other places,  The Harlequin, Hinterland, The Interpreter’s House, Lighthouse, Message in a Bottle, The Nightwatchman, The Wisden Cricket Quarterly,  Prole, Staple,The Stare’s Nest, and Ink, Sweat and Tears