By Danté Émile
Swarms of angels circle my ripe apple-heart.
Moth to a flame,
match to the skin, cardinal red.
I wear my cloak-like grief
draped around my shoulders.
I carry the screams of my dead
like a wooden cross. Splinters of recognition
under every single one of my nails. Chorus of
old gods narrating the tragedy of my survival.
A vault brimming with all the gold they promised to give back &
a half-buried brother. Antigone of the South.
Blood on my hands, on their hands, on your hands,
& not a single drop of rain anywhere.
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Dante Émile is a Mexican, gay, transmasculine author based in Barcelona. They write both in Spanish and English about topics such as love, death, God, horror, and the overlap between them all. You can find more of their work in their upcoming chapbook MISPLACED ORGANS & VARIOUS SAINTS.
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