by J.D. Isip

If ever an echo in a hallway brought you through
a passenger car, appointed in burgundy with tasseled lamps,
tinkling porcelain plates, thick crystal goblets, then forests of ash,
oak, and cedar elm, the wet ground, coal in the engine, voices from the living-

room where you left or were going cascade across memory, yours
and those you borrowed from intellects in the architecture, ears
and mouths in the overhangs and eaves. Reverberations
of our collected past, all of us passengers on this

rail crisscrossing liminal towns, ley lines, family lines
calling from the kitchen, the locomotive, the yellow-green prairies
dappled with sheep and shadows from overhead clouds, shadows stretching
this foreign and familiar landscape, how what was once clear in the light of day,

a home, a hallway, a half-life seemed whole just moments ago when this world
was without layers, just the topsoil of time. The trip almost always begins
by accident, some ancient root knots across your path, some sound
joins the round of the chorus past, present, future-bound.

J.D. Isip’s collections include Reluctant Prophets (Moon Tide Press, 2025), Kissing the Wound (Moon Tide Press, 2023), and Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015). J.D. teaches in South Texas where he lives with his dogs, Ivy and Bucky.

by Chandler Garcia

Sometimes, I pray to God
or whatever.
To my giant posters of Jeff Buckley and Dolores O’Riordan,
rest in peace,
or to my Billie Holiday CD I haven’t listened to in years,
since I totaled my 2001 CRV,
rest in peace.
It’s true what they say, don’t text and drive.

And it’s true what they say, I’ve always had a thing
for coming close to death,
so, I pray sometimes.

I never pray on my knees,
I can’t bring myself to stoop that low.
“God never listens to those that stand and stare
at the moon for too long.”
My grandmother once told me this,
inside of a church with a skylight,
rest in peace.
So, I stare at the moon too long and pray sometimes.

And I wear a rosary I felt inclined
to buy from a vendor in Guanajuato,
because the statues of Jesus weeping
forever nailed by his palms
were haunting enough
to convince you
that you were Catholic,
rest in peace.

And it’s true what they say,
you can hear all the drowned
crying in the church bells.

So, I pray
every time I go into the ocean.
Because I’m not a good swimmer
and the waves can easily take me somewhere
I can see what the moon looks like,
so I always go far in
until my legs get too tired.
And I stare at God on my back.

And it’s true what they say, the waves
rock you like a baby
and pull you under just as much.

And I think about all the people
who died at sea,
rest in peace,
and how they had boats and legs like mine,
that got too tired.
But I can’t bring myself to pray for them,
because I don’t know how
to pray for something I don’t know.

And it’s true what they say, God never listens
to those that stare at the moon too long
through eyes desperate for something wanted, unwanted.

My grandmother would spit at me
for holding onto her words
and spitting them back out at God,
rest in peace,
or because I’ve forgotten
all my Hail Mary’s
and don’t care
to remember them.

I remember the bloated and pale bodies
of all those that prayed with their last breath
And I can never get to the “Amen.”

Chandler Garcia is a 23 year old Latinx and transgender student at California State University, Long Beach, pursuing a degree in Creative Writing with a focus in poetry. They use their experiences being a trans person of color in various aspects of their identity and life to inspire their writing and poetic voice. Their work has been published in SCAB Magazine.