On LITRO online.

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Our kind came from the sea.

Webbed hands gripped the smoothed rock. The softened wood of the pier fractured in our fingers. Our taut forearms were strong from life beneath. We dragged our blue-tinged bodies up, scaled – or perhaps furred, with algae – shaking tangled kelp from our hair. And in our blood, the song that drags a man to his grave.

So my mother told me. And her mother told her.

The Mechanics Institute Review.

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It all started yesterday, with the burning. 

Smoke rose in great plumes overhead as the men took to the fields with torches. They tied handkerchiefs over noses and lips; sweat rained down from their foreheads. Afterwards, they washed ash from their eyelashes and inside their ears. Sweetness and smoke filled their nostrils...

On The Evening Standard.

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Start with the pig.

Skin split, arms and legs tied together. Butchered body, Glad-wrapped, carried home in the back of the ute. Normally, Nonno carries the carcass up over a shoulder in a way that screams accident waiting to happen. Say nothing because it’s a man’s job.

“This pig,” Nonno will say, “Best pig.”

City of Stories Anthology.

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When he goes, she’ll be different, my mother tells me. Can sixty years of marriage be erased with a death? We can hope, Mother says. I will find Nonna seated on the lounge, needles in hand, yarn gathered by her slippers. ‘Hello figlia,’ she will say, trying not to stare at my tattoos...