Cover image: "The Merton Paradigm" by Mars Cassidy
Gallery 2
lower lover cover
Myfanwy Williams
A prayer
and possibly a prayer
when he says gardening is the most revolutionary act
seed sowing cultivation of ground. for deliverance
perhaps a call to prayer
when she grows arabian jasmine in spent mortar casings
insistent farmers in this gethsemane a new intifada
and possibly a legacy
this horticulturalist in camouflage his subterfuge
a sack full of saplings singing as he covers their feet
and waits.
and
perhaps all of it contemplation
my snow pea sprouts unfurl as verdant moth wings
a craving to inhabit the air, to reach tendrils to trellis
and beyond
young green and gluttonous with hope
oh, we cannot get enough of it this hope.
Myfanwy Williams is a queer Filipino Welsh writer based in Sydney, Australia. Her work explores social and environmental justice. Her poetry has been published by the South Coast Writers Centre, Writing Between the Fences, Plumwood Mountain Journal, About Place Journal, The Winged Moon Literary Journal and Querencia Press (upcoming). Her first literary novel won a Harper Collins/Varuna Manuscript Development Award in Sydney. Myfanwy has a PhD in Social Science and Policy and teaches at the University of New South Wales, Sydney. She is currently working on her second poetry collection and her second novel.
Paul Ilechko
Cold Night with Cloud Cover
The first time I realized
you couldn’t live life based on
what you had read in books
it was seven o’clock
on a cold winter’s evening
I was trying to understand the difference
between redemption and resurrection
and how both inevitably led to silence
we had a low horizon that night
and clouds seemed to tower
endlessly upwards
piling on top of each other in billowing
stacks of vapor and gas
darkness lit from within by the fire
of a recently remembered sunset
somewhere in there must be a moon
but I failed to speak of it
obsessed as I was
by my recent discoveries
I had a whole library of instructional material
but nothing to help me respond
to the most basic of social interactions
the pond on the property was frozen solid
but the stream which meandered its way here
from the distant mountains
buried its way deep beneath
the iron-blue surface
creating points of weakness
which would splinter and crack
on the first warm day.
Paul Ilechko is a British-American poet and occasional songwriter. He was born in Barnsley in the north of England, and attended Royal Holloway College, University of London, for his Bachelor’s degree. He now lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, The Night Heron Barks, Atlanta Review, Permafrost, and Pirene’s Fountain. He has published several chapbooks, including Pain Sections from Alien Buddha Press. His first full-length book is scheduled for 2025 publication by Gnashing Teeth Publishing. Instagram: @njscattista
Lynn Thayer
Defect
Why this crawl toward clarity? diamonds without mar, glass washed of dirt & fingerprints, productivity without distraction, goals so smart they grow brains of their own, sex organs, begin to reproduce, birth tasks & calendar invites until the path is cleared of trees to make room for the endless view, until the sunlight is pure white, not any single vivid wavelength, to see better each flaw & imperfection because it’s all a defect to fix.
What happened to sticky soles, a mess with questionable origin?
A mistake, interruption, wrong turn is just that; no language or viewpoint or conjecture can cremate it into progress regardless of the measure of its ashes.
We blacken the pan, set off a smoke alarm, wait for a window of justice to calm the air.
At noon the daydream awakens; at midnight a nightmare sleeps past the siren—
the spruce & firs are burning, the ones left after the cutting, ringed with memories & boiled sap pumped through heartwood like a vicious decision that alone, one person cannot stop an onslaught of flame or blade while the rest of us pause with smouldered eyes for the smoke to settle our sins
Lynn Thayer is a multidisciplinary artist living with chronic disability in Salida, CO. Her work has appeared in The Closed Eye Open and is forthcoming in Obscura Craft Magazine. Lynn was accepted into Jane Hirshfield’s Advanced Poetry Workshop through Lighthouse Writers Workshop (2024) and selected for the 2024-2025 Poetry Collective manuscript cohort, also through Lighthouse.
Lindy Giusta

Lindy Giusta is a passionate queer Brooklyn-based outsider-esque mixed media artist. When not fervently creating art, they love drinking copious amounts of coffee, finding nature in the city and beyond, going on adventures, enjoying their lovely animals, playing mandolin, and reading. Their art has been published in Weird Lit Mag (as Vol. 2 cover art), Peatsmoke Journal, and Libre Lit.
Evelyn Pae
Beautiful Open Questions
The contents of this observational study have been translated from Birdsong, Piping Plover dialect. This work is made available to you through the Interspecies Truce for the Purpose of Increasing Universal Knowledge.
Notes on the Exceptional Behavior of Several Human Individuals on Lakeshore Territory Belonging to Piping Plovers: An Initial Monograph
1. Arrival of the Large-Eyed Humans (and definition of such)
The humans arrived at Lakeshore Territory soon after the commencement of our first breeding season in the new territory. The author’s mate, a three-year-old male Piping Plover in good health and fertility, was the first to spot the humans while scouting the territory around the nest upon which the author was brooding her eggs. We refer here not to the regular humans, which were abundant as usual as the weather became warmer, but to those humans displaying aberrant and ultimately plover-related behavior, henceforth referred to as Large-Eyed Humans. In fact, not all humans of this group ended up displaying the large-eyed trait, but the first several we observed were distinguished by this trait, and it became the name by which we referred to all members of the group.
The first human approached slowly with an unfamiliar object hanging around its neck, composed of two black tubes at the ends of which shiny circles glinted. The author immediately deployed the Broken Wing Trick Technique (BWTT) which successfully diverted the human from the nest. The human did not subsequently attack the author but retreated up the beach and assumed a crouching position near small trees. The human then performed what would come to be a commonly observed ritual: it raised its black tube object to its face, so that it appeared to have extremely large, round eyes jutting out of its face. The human remained there for several minutes, at a safe distance, not performing any further threatening actions, and the author judged it safe to return to the nest.
The following day, at the time the sun was at its highest peak in the sky, three humans with black tube objects returned to the same spot on the beach, where the author was again brooding her eggs. All three humans performed the Large-Eye Ritual for an extended period of time. For the next two days, groups of between 2-5 humans appeared at the beach with black tube objects and performed the Large-Eye Ritual before departing. The author and her mate began calling these humans the “Large-Eyed Humans.”
2. The first instance of Magic
About halfway through the egg-brooding period, the Large-Eyed Humans performed the first observed instance of Human Magic. This phenomenon manifested in the form of thin, cold strands woven into the peculiar straight-line shapes characteristic of human-made residues. The humans approached the author’s nest with a large quantity of this unbreakable substance. The author deployed BWTT and was ignored by the humans, who, with their dexterous ability to manipulate physical objects using their characteristic fingertalons, rapidly raised a great Magic Circle around the nest. Humans then retreated to a non-threat distance and performed the Large-Eye Ritual, as if in celebration of their feat.
The significance relative to us of this First Magic Act quickly became apparent. At the time of disappearing sun on that same day, a human came walking down the beach with a tame wolf [dog] on a rope. By then the author had discovered that the Magic Circle was woven so loosely as to be inconsequential, since plovers could simply walk in and out at will. The author’s mate was greatly distressed by the possibility of the Magic attracting unwanted attention to the eggs. We were discussing the issue when the human released the [dog] from the rope. The [dog] ran straight for the nest and the author’s mate immediately deployed BWTT and alarm calling.
The author has made a study of the languages of common predators (1) and was able to translate part of the [dog]’s statement: Birds, [unintelligible] birds, birds, [unintelligible] [HEAVY WHUFF (denoting excitement)] What’s inside the cage? What’s inside the cage? What’s inside the cage? [unintelligible] Kennel for birds [end transcript]. The author does not claim to understand the meaning of these statements.
To our amazement, we observed that the [dog] was unable to bypass the Circle, the gaps in which being large enough to admit a plover, but too narrow for larger animals to fit their bodies through. The concept could be compared to that of “sheltering in undergrowth,” a tactic commonly used by small birds to escape predators. There has been some evidence that humans understand and utilize such concepts. After ramming its nose unsuccessfully against the Circle several times, the [dog] returned to its human. We reconvened at the nest and observed that all four eggs were unharmed.
2.1 The fox
Later that night, a fox came by the nest and inserted its foot through one of the holes of the Circle. Upon realizing there would be no access to the nest, the fox made the following statement: Canny, nifty, tricksy, little birds finding tricksy places to hide delicious droolworthy eggs; however, I am a fox and flick my tail at your saliva-inducing delicacy, already off to find finer fare lying elsewhere in the broad black beach domain.
3. The second instance of Magic
Shortly after the First Act, the humans performed a second instance of Magic, which appeared to be a variation on the First Magic, but far more powerful and mysterious. Large-Eyed Humans appeared (by now we had learned to recognize them also by the distinctive pattern of their body-feathers, even those which did not wear Large Eyes) with a long coil of rope and several long, straight, black branches. The humans proceeded to erect the branches at regular intervals along the beach. The rope, white and taut, was strung between the poles. Talismans of the human shape, with four unnaturally straight edges (that shape which the discerning observer can also observe repeated in the pattern of the First Magic), were affixed to this rope, again at various intervals. The talismans were inscribed with Human-Written Language, which differs significantly from Human Tracks, and has not yet been possible to decipher.
3.1 Hypothesized effect of the Human Talismans
We have observed a fascinating phenomenon: a marked tendency by humans to avoid the White Line. Though the rope is easily physically bypassed, the humans are highly averse to traveling under or over it. After several days of observation, we noticed that the aversion to crossing the line seems to be triggered directly after humans view one of the Human Talismans. This led to the formation of one hypothesis, that the talismans contain a deterrent message in Human-Written Language. It may be that the talismans function similarly to the scent-markers of foxes and [dogs], warning intruders away from the territory of the Large-Eyed Humans. Alternatively, the talismans may hold a sacred or taboo meaning to humans, thus accounting for their superstitious behavior.
The author’s mate holds a personal theory about the purpose of the talismans: he believes the humans placed the talismans for us, the Piping Plovers of Lakeshore Territory. He claims to be able to discern upon the talisman a black symbol representing a bird. He observes that the effects of the Human Magic have thus far benefited us and our young. They have protected us from predators; they have kept other humans away from our nest, making it easier for us to feed and watch our chicks. Why perform Magic with these specific effects, the author’s mate argues, if not to cause those effects on purpose? If humans are interested in our young-rearing activities, what does that signify for us, the Piping Plovers of Lakeshore Territory? What drew their attention to us, of all birds and beach-dwellers; for what arcane human purpose are they watching over us?
The author herself has her doubts about these radical lines of thought. She reminds the reader that premature attempts to guess the motives of humans have often proven incorrect. She cautions the reader to remain objective and wary, as is befitting of wild birds. A theory, however elegant, cannot be converted into knowledge without the collection of further evidence. As of the time of writing, the author cannot draw a definitive conclusion on the reason the humans performed the First and Second Magic Acts, nor the mechanism by which they did so. The Magic Acts remain in evidence at Lakeshore Territory, and we continue to study their construction and ongoing effects.
4. The leg-marks
We continued to observe the Large-Eyed Humans at the Territory throughout the warm season. Our offspring hatched and grew old enough to run. At that point, a group of Large-Eyed Humans “marked” the legs of the young. This behavior appeared at first to be predatory, but the young were released unharmed, each bearing the human “markings” which the author and her mate also possess from our own previous such encounters with humans. The well-known “marking” phenomenon has been described elsewhere (2) and appears to apply to multiple kindreds of birds. Some have referred to the markings as “bands,” as they bear a similarity to the bands or bars found on feather-patterns.
For what purpose the humans mark us we do not know. Why are plovers seized by humans only twice in a lifetime, always twice, while other birds are seized at random, caught in the human Invisible Magic which glimmers across thin air and brings the swiftest fliers low? What do the markings mean, the combinations of them, the different colors and symbols, the positioning high or low upon the leg? It is said that everything humans do must have a reason, just as everything plovers do has a reason, and the same for foxes, other birds, creatures of the water; though we should not assume their reason is like ours, still they must have their own methodology. The humans appear from nowhere, bringing with them their extraordinary Magic, and fundamentally alter the shape and function of our world. There is so much about them we have yet to understand; behaviors not yet mapped, large-scale phenomena unexplained, languages to be deciphered; the author finds joy in these beautiful open questions, which provide endless opportunities to study the fascinating creatures with whom we share our world.
(1) See “Preliminary Notes on a Bird’s Translations of Fox, Raccoon, and Human Tame Wolf Dialects in the Region of Lakeshore Territory Belonging to Piping Plovers.”
(2) See “First-claw description of an encounter with human displaying classic ‘leg-marking’ behavior, by a half-year-old female Piping Plover from Many Islands Territory.”
Evelyn Pae is an aspiring naturalist and speculative fiction writer currently based in Syracuse, New York.
Stephen Campiglio
Cracks
“I have to be careful with my thoughts,
they change me,” I think, as I note
the salesclerk’s painfully paid-for smile.
…
Persistent life, like the weevils
that reproduce inside
old boxes of pasta.
The worm-shape provides
the model for vermicelli.
Verme . . . like those that slither
inside the brains of war vendors.
Heed the verminous pasta.
Vermivorous birds attend
to the aftermath of bombed-out
bowls of earth (hence, bowels).
…
Imagine an augury
derived by interpreting
the direction of cracks
in gravestones, as though
flames from beneath
speak through fissures.
And all around me,
the dexterous hands
of personified grass
groom and shape
the wild grounds.
Stephen Campiglio co-edited Noh Place Poetry Anthology (Lost Valley Press, 2022) and was selected as one of the winners in the 2024 contest Mapping Worcester in Poetry: Poems in and out of Places. His poetry and Italian translations have appeared in Aji Magazine, The Closed Eye Open, Gradiva, Hole in the Head Review, Italian Americana, Journal of Italian Translation (JIT), Open Doors Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Poet Lore, and SurVision. He is presently working with Elena Borelli to render the first complete translation into English of Giovanni Pascoli’s 1903 volume of poetry Canti di Castelvecchio for the audio/visual journal Translators Aloud. Campiglio continues to seek a publisher for his first book-length poetry manuscript.
Amy Dupcak
Wrecked
after Adrienne Rich
We swim out to see it
fifty feet deep. A shallow
prelude, then sharp descent
into royal blue, where we don’t
belong. My chest tightens, thoughts
drift. Go slow, I think. Focus.
He swims faster, points ahead.
I skim the surface like a stone
as the watery spectacle
appears below. This can’t be real.
I hover above, buoyant, watching fish
dart through the wreck; it belongs
to them now. Why couldn’t the poor
crew steer to shore
only three or four
hundred feet from here, and
did everyone survive? The thought
slides down my spine and suddenly
I need land. But he wants
another angle, so we make
a sharp turn—wave of vertigo,
rapid pull, all gravity suspends.
Nothing tethers me to earth. I freeze,
panic, bob like cork.
He pulls off his mask, looks me
in the eye, shouts above my frantic
shouts, tries to talk me down,
anchor me to ocean air.
Breathe! We have nothing
but these salient bodies.
And part of me remembers
that I’ve been here before, adrift
in open sea. Even when tempted
to submerge, to let the waves
close over my head, I have always
returned. There is enough air,
but I make things difficult—
waste energy, fear the body
that built me, long struggle ahead.
He pushes and I swim
because I can, because I must,
because I came for the wreck
and not the story of the wreck.
I swam out to swim back in again,
to carry this body home.
Amy Dupcak published a story collection, Dust (2016), and co-edited an anthology of prose and poetry, Words After Dark (2020). Her poetry has been published in Pangyrus, Passengers, American Writers Review, District Lit, The Night Heron Barks, The Blue Mountain Review, and alternative field’s In Isolation anthology, while her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Vol 1. Brooklyn, Sonora Review, Phoebe, Litro, Hypertext, and other journals. She earned her MFA from The New School and teaches a variety of writing workshops and sessions with Writopia Lab, The Writer’s Rock, 826NYC, and other organizations. Additionally, she is the current Editor in Chief of the journal Cagibi.
Tiffany Dugan

Tiffany Dugan is an NYC-based writer, mixed media artist, and art legacy worker with a background in arts non-profits and higher education. She has exhibited in 30+ solo and group shows in New York and at Kolaj Fest 2024 New Orleans. Her work was selected for the National Collage Society’s 2024 juried exhibit at the Maryland Institute College of Art. Her work has been featured in six literary magazines, including The Penn Review and CALYX, and is in collections throughout the US and Europe. She was a Diderot Artist-in-Residence at d’Orquevaux (2020). She received the Kathryn Gurfein Writing Fellowship in Creative Non-Fiction (2019) and has finished a memoir, Love and Art, about art legacy. Tiffany received a BA in Literature from Sarah Lawrence College and an MS in Organizational Change Management from The New School. Visit her art at her website tiffanydugan.com and Instagram @tiffany.dugan.
Dale Going
Les Très Riches Heures
red-violet & voile the lovers’ holds
gold laid on a ground of blue
& lake & filled with lake & blue
the lovers are twined
the lovers are paled
red-dark & blue-light
the bolts of their joining
*
fluent the arms of the round
limber & in hollow folded
overt the great woods
nether vert the under
in my hand versional lower lover cover
*
repetition of the whorls when a tongue occurs
the head rests on the O-part, its wings
touch from which the lover’s scrollwork sings
flowering the continual
*
white rapture sparks
her head in the water
or foam where her feet were
& gives rise & gives rise
& gives rise to
stems text tendrils & etcetera blossoms buds
sprung berries
*
interlacing the lovers
& itself
not outlined
yet
most delicately drawn
the deft projecting dawn
*
slightly changing pressures & quick
variegation figuring & green tempered wand
exerted by cursive the long feather is felt
filaments of feather elasticity of quill
let the pen do the writing let the quill quiver
Author’s Note: Scattered fragments are from Edward Johnston’s Writing & Illuminating & Lettering.
Dale Going’s new collection, The Beautiful Language of Our Disaster, is forthcoming as the 2024 Codhill Press Guest Editor selection, as is For the Anniversaries of All Loving Kinds of Meetings, a chapbook from Albion Books. Her previous collections are The View They Arrange (Kelsey St. Press) and As/Of the Whole (SFSU Award, selected by Brenda Hillman). Her work has been supported by Fund for Poetry, California Arts Council, and Residency Fellowships at Yaddo, Watermill Center, Wedding Cake House and Djerassi. Recent poems appear or are forthcoming in Annulet, Interim, New American Writing, VOLT, Wild Roof Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Manhattan. Linktree: @dalegoing
Christy Umberger
How to Find Your Purpose
Arrive on a Saturday afternoon, unsure
in an unfamiliar town. But on Sunday morning,
when the sun rises, follow the call to uncover
your new backyard: Lace up hiking boots; oil face, arms,
and ankles. Strap snacks, water, and lunch to your back.
When your calves quickly ache from foreign incline,
walk on. Turn your head at the sound of a trickling stream,
smell the tall vanilla Ponderosa pine company,
step over gnarled roots and stones;
feel supported by the forest ground of home.
In the virid underbrush, only a mile or two from the start,
lock eyes with a mother moose.
Further up the trail, pause to breathe; brush your fingers
across lichen-covered rocks, entranced
by the rough orange-gray swirls.
By noon, when heat from a cloudless sky
meets you above the tree line, find union with the meadow
widened to high-elevation proportions, filled with wildflowers
of the tiniest yellow and violet petals. Peer out a top-story
window at heaven peaks adorned by July snow.
By the shining azure lake, be startled, even before you glance
across the water at four more moose—stoic and quiet, feeding
on grasses with no concern for you. Then tear yourself
away from yet another perfect scene. Continue,
even while starting to exhaust from the hot climb.
For the final mile, clamber up the wall of rocks
until you’ve made it, smiling—at the summit of your day.
spin in all directions, then realize that to be right here—
your fifth home and counting—everything has a role,
a function, a meaning. The dead leaf is half leaf
and half soil. The minnows in the lake: both feeder and food.
Settle into yourself like sand settles into stone; let your desire
for a chainsaw turn into respect for erosion. Let the sharp
Colorado sun shine through the magnified fears in your mind,
sparking a fire of peace in your heart.
Lay down, tucked in between the stacked high mountain thighs,
and drop your hard shell. Let your shoulders fall,
and change: Become anything—finally unshackled
from definition. For an instant, on the shoulders of the universe,
see all the way to the stage.
Christy Umberger is a poet currently based in Fort Collins, CO with her partner, Christian, and cat, Pepper. Her work has appeared in Anodyne Magazine and The Closed Eye Open, among others. When she’s not writing, Christy can be found hiking in the Colorado foothills, biking along the Poudre river, taking a walk just after sunset, or posting on Instagram as @christyumber.
Shagufta Mulla
I’m Not Used to Being Asked
The Willamette River asks me what I want,
and with all my life’s longing
I am surprised by my mouth’s stuck-
tongue silence.
I never thought I’d dream of the desert
where the hot rot of childhood burned
me awake when I still wanted to sleep
beneath nurse plants—beneath glochid-covered skin.
But now, I am moon- and fog-filling—spilling
like the river after we drown for days.
There are fish on the sidewalk—
islands of eyes set in silver that mirror
all of me—dead and alive—and still their scales
rainbow for me
me
me
in unexpected sun.
With mouths dried open,
they ask me what I want.
Shagufta Mulla is the art editor of Peatsmoke Journal, a veterinarian-turned-content writer/top editor for TIME Stamped, and an artist. Her poetry has appeared in Okay Donkey, Stoneboat Literary Journal, Crab Creek Review, Blood Orange Review, the speculative poetry anthology NOMBONO by Sundress Publications, and elsewhere. She was a 2024 winner in The University of Arizona Poetry Center’s Fifth Annual Haiku Hike and she won Blood Orange Review’s 2021 poetry prize. In 2022, she was a semifinalist in Crab Creek Review’s poetry contest and DiBiase Poetry’s contest. Shagufta lives in Oregon, but you can find her on Instagram @s.mulla.dvm.
Sandie Friedman
This Is Josephine
I was walking down Connecticut Avenue with a heap of dry cleaning over my arm when the phone rang. I saw the DC area code and thought it might be the doctor’s office, but instead a woman’s voice said anxiously, “Seymour?” Of course, I am not Seymour, but I said “Yes?” expectantly because that was what she expected and because it would almost certainly be preferable to be Seymour. Especially if that meant she would talk to me. When there was silence, I added, “I’m here.” Another beat of silence before she answered, “I changed my mind. I can’t come.” I asked why not. She only sighed. We returned to silence, and the clothes draped over my arm suddenly felt very heavy.
Without thinking, I blurted, “This is Josephine. Please come anyway. I’ll be at Teaism, waiting.” She hung up instantly. I thought of dialing back with the plea: I’m Seymour, I’m Seymour, I’m Seymour.
Sandie Friedman teaches academic writing at George Washington University. Her flash fiction has been published in Pearl Press, Ethel, House, and other lit mags. “Used Hearse” appeared in New Flash Fiction Review and was nominated for Best Microfiction in 2022. You can find more of Sandie’s flash at sandiebobby.com. You can find her personal essays online at Construction, Mutha, The Nervous Breakdown, and The Rumpus.
Amy Marques


Amy Marques has been known to call books friends and is on a first-name basis with many fictional characters. She has been nominated for multiple awards and longlisted twice in the Wigleaf Top 50, and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in Wild Roof Journal as well as Streetcake Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Fictive Dream, Unlost, Ghost Parachute, BOOTH, Chicago Quarterly Review, and Gone Lawn. She is the editor and visual artist for the Duets anthology and author and artist of the found poetry book PARTS. More at amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com. X: amybookwhisper1 / Instagram: @amyiscold
Mars Cassidy

Mars Cassidy has been an artist, art conservator, writer, nun, cheesemaker, farmer, cow-milker, hermit, and grad student. She graduated from Pratt Institute in printmaking and Saint Martin’s University with a master’s in counseling. She is available for coaching sessions through her website: logicisarobot.com.
Ann E. Wallace
The sky in my backyard is opening
Up. I’ve been watching
as the plum tree extends
its arms and breathes
finally.
Large machines with claws,
rollers in place of wheels,
rake at the ramshackle walls
of the neighboring garage,
an eyesore to be sure in this city
where sharp prospectors are swift
to set such weary structures
in their scopes and level them,
dust to dust.
If I listen closely, I can hear
the birds swoop in, fill
the branches, their voices
tender against the crackle
and roar of demolition.
I begin to mourn
this brief opening
before the sky closes
once again, when the ground
is laid bare and the developer’s
plans have yet to rise from the page—
bigger, taller—
in the back corner
of my exposed garden.
The tree that now breathes
in relief has no idea
the darkness coming.
Ann E. Wallace is the 2023-2024 Poet Laureate of Jersey City, New Jersey and host of The WildStory: A Podcast of Poetry and Plants. She is the author of two poetry collections: Days of Grace and Silence: A Chronicle of COVID’s Long Haul (Kelsay Books, 2024) and Counting by Sevens (Main Street Rag, 2019). She has previously published work in Wild Roof Journal, One Art, Halfway Down the Stairs, Wordgathering, and other journals. You can follow her online at AnnWallacePhD.com and on Instagram @annwallace409.