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by J. D. Isip

Ode to Frito Pie

If you call it pie, it’s pie. Like a regime that sprung up overnight,

nobody asking about bodies they know not to ask about, little flags

to celebrate the agreed upon thing, you accept what you are served.

Split the bag right down the side so it becomes a cup of corn chips,

an ingenious efficiency, like the monkey skull in Temple of Doom

that doubled as a dish for its chilled brain, just add chili and cheese.

We had it at Dan’s funeral with bottles of Shiner, added white onion

to joke about the tears, to laugh at anyone asking why you call it pie,

grateful for a question we could answer among many we could not.


J.D. Isip’s full-length poetry collections include Kissing the Wound (Moon Tide Press, 2023) and Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015). His third collection, tentatively titled Reluctant Prophets, will be released by Moon Tide Press in early 2025. J.D. lives in Texas with his dogs, Ivy and Bucky.


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