Standing on the cinders of your apartment.
Couldn’t find a living trace that you existed.
The river, iridescent with oil and flecks of rust.
Making its way down under bridges and souring the spillways, into a whale's mouth.
Later whispering to a stillborn calf.
Moving towards the antennas, I found what was left of you.
Forced into a shape I couldn’t describe.
Perished alone among the metal hums of derelict signals.
I opened your mouth and found feathers.
The last of your retribution.
Your hands were locked tight,
fingers breaking through the palms.
Like you were wrestling against the last angel.
-- Michael Edward Díaz has been writing for 15 years. Lives in Philadelphia and learned English from playing Metal Gear Solid on PS1.