Learn to Pray

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.

2025-03-01T17:24:23-05:00March 1, 2025|

New Wherester, Maine

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.

2025-02-23T10:42:24-05:00February 23, 2025|

Fire in the Grain

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.

2025-02-22T10:31:21-05:00February 22, 2025|

Reading Joan Didion in the Condo in Red River

by Angela Janda

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.
– Joan Didion

 

I was in the condo in Red River,
the one with instructions on all the walls:
Turn on / Turn off / Don’t move dial / Empty
upon departure & the youngest was napping
& the oldest was below the dull brown deck
in the swimming pool with his father & I was reading
Joan Didion in the king-sized bed behind the living
room couch & it had been crawling up inside me
the whole trip & at Chapter 17 the recognition was a full
circle, was an egg in my mouth, how in all the years
since the divorce I’d never grieved it, not properly
or improperly—not at all. & when I came
upon it, when I saw the width of my regret, I wrote
him a letter & would have walked south away
from my sleeping baby through the Sangre de Cristos
to deliver it to him, would have taken his face
into my hands so gently that the touch itself
was the transmission, so the touch itself
was what I’ve lost my chance to say

 

 

 


Angela Janda’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Sun, Rattle, HAD, and elsewhere. Her work was a finalist for the 2024 Jack McCarthy Book Prize. She is on most social media sites as @angelajanda (@arjanda on Twitter). More information is available at angelajanda.com.

2025-02-16T10:28:54-05:00February 16, 2025|

The Aching Heel Eyed Righteous

by Josh Gaydos

 

Knowing not one of us will see a third jubilee
the prophet instead watches the planes land in Athens,
shade splits the olive tree, trunk splits the clay loam

Knowing the ache in her chest won’t wholly heal
the mother instead watches spokes spin the cul de sac,
her children laugh out the airy road, pedaling snowmelt

Knowing that man could not fly home in flesh
the seamstress instead watches him crash the stolen wings,
embroidery beads, gray stone and marrow

 

 

 


Josh Gaydos (he/him) currently resides in Washington D.C. He is an editor at South Broadway Ghost Society. Josh has been published in Barren Magazine, DIAGRAM, Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine and Roi Fainéant Press. Follow him on X, Bluesky, and Instagram @jgwrites22.

2025-02-15T10:36:40-05:00February 15, 2025|
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