by Brandon Shane

My daughter sits in a body of flowers,
the casual beauty that occurs
a few miles into the wilderness,
and it is morning in December,
none of the animals know what to do,
summertime in winter,
the blooming agenda
must be discarded
and printed again,
she is laughing like the trees
do not hold a grudge
against our home, the life cut down
for ours to flourish,
the birds calling a phone
that we cannot pick up,
the sunlight offering a tender hand,
a bit of reprieve from the displays
of wooden walls, wooden rooftops,
the truck churning down roads
running over and spitting out.
And I watch her sometimes
with lilacs between her fingers
or roses, whatever
magical thing she has ripped
from the ground, parading
the roots like some
auspicious thing.

My daughter grabs another, and another,
I smell their petals, wonderful stem of life,
dead now, gorgeous explosions, then sterile,
and she stirs for a moment, something
telling her this is wrong; I study this,
guilt lumping in her throat,
the mercy of nature
all around us.

I close my eyes and hear ritual slaughter,
chants of witches having become
wind chimes hanging in the forest,
and a gust hits me with vibrating tracks,
my daughter has pulled every flower,
she is tripping to find more,
a bouquet between her fingers,
their green blood, what’s left
wilting on the dirt, a killing field.
She fills me with happiness,
I watch as the sun glides
over her brown hair,
she is laughing, and killing
all the flowers, how precious
this moment resides
in my memory,
and how that thing
in her throat has become
voracious laughter.

Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in trampset, Chiron Review, the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.

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.

by Matt Stefon

Red sky in the
morning behind
all those clouds. The
Shakers sleeping

on the trembling
hill, hopefully
warmer than the
thousand-odd trees

shivering in the
morning out the
window. On this
side, still in bed,

my wife and dog
dreaming—God—have
no need to know
I’m writing this.

Matt Stefon lives and writes north of Boston. His latest chapbook is Beyond the Spaghettiville Bridge (Alien Buddha Press). He’s likely forever stuck on 463 all-time wiffle ball home runs, and that’s okay. He can be found on Twitter/X @Matt_Stefon, BlueSky @MattStefonPoems@bsky.social, and Instagram @mattstefon.

by JLM Morton

The walls are playing
with light, just before
twilight, colour of ripe
wheat at Lughnasadh,
the space between
shadows, dog alert
for the fox on the road.

In this time of lean
harvest, just for
a moment, the quiet
song of us beats
in the wisteria,
lambent leaves
on the ceiling.

The gladioli are the reddest
they’ve been all day,
vulvas lit by descending
sun, you, the grip
of my thighs
a vase, calling in
the dusk.

JLM Morton is a British poet and writer. Highly commended by the Forward Prizes and longlisted in the National Poetry Competition, she is the winner of the Laurie Lee and Geoffrey Dearmer prizes. Her first collection is Red Handed (Broken Sleep Books, 2024). Find her online at jlmmorton.com.