In my lit mag research (read: randomly clicking on websites) I stumbled upon Elizabeth Benjamin (class of '07) in The New Orleans Review. Last I heard Elizabeth was butchering chickens in Maine. And writing. Chickens and literature are inexorably linked, I've noticed. Chickens work in the way that other domesticated animals do not.
From Mount St. Helens:
"When I was twenty-nine, my hair became so tangled with grief that my my mother and I wore bathing suits in the shower together while she greased my hair and combed it under the spray..."