First fell the ravens. Then the condors. Then the messenger pigeons, with bleeding heart breasts.
Finally, came the legions of angels, ichor on green grass. Hundreds upon thousands, bereft of sputtering halos – bloody swords, gold armor, tunics with the Lion of God emblazoned on torn chests.
I fell in the archangel’s arms, flesh ruined, wings broken. He cradled me and sobbed, called my name, over and over.
My spirit fled and he? He carried on. Crazy Man Michael, his raven’s heart pierced by a fiery sword, cursed to see clearly and tend the garden.