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Dante Sebastian Antonio

Dante Sebastian Antonio (b. 2003) is a musician, writer, and artist. Most of what he’s written consists of short fiction and poetry, but he also loves writing essays and is currently working on his first novel.



Brown-dead leaves nearby,
broken down by the black fence;
their shadows dance still.

Many years ago:
a fire (natural causes) —
an orphaned boy, sick.

The sun’s golden glare
pierces through the clouds below
and lands in the mud.

A man walks along
the wet, feces-ridden trail,
each step a damp thud.

His eyes dull hazel,
their sockets hollow; lips still —
there are no tears now.


Sometimes, when the clouds are thick
overhead, I see my dead brother’s face,

and at night, sitting on the bleachers,
watching the squirrel run and die,

I can hear my mother screaming —
flames raping our house’s wooden frame.

There’s a naked silence when I stand,
staring down at the frail bird’s grave;

last night, after the speeding ticket,
a young doctor apologized,

and by the time I walk into her room,
my wife’s skin is cold, eyes closed.

(I look back at the bird, feel my stomach
lurch — my vomit hits its beak.)


A white-wrinkled mark
on the grey and dirt-brown bench;
old seats placed apart.

There are many trees
here behind the silver pew,
their branches strong, firm.

In the early dawn,
a child wanders by and stares,
hands dangling like rope.

A low, quiet mist
moves in to comfort and blur —
her eyes unblinking.

Death follows always,
clinging near and keeping pace,
its thread laced in oil.
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