Sonnet for Jean Grey

It was the night when she first peered at stars.
No, it was the curse of being chosen
by men, goddesses and heroes frozen
at the fury of passion trapped in bars.
It was being called Marvel Girl instead
of her preference: something that hinted
at prowess, adulthood, aura scented
with cinders and quasars, avid and red.
It was killing those who stood in her path
and being killed by those who loved her best.
It was never time to explain her wrath
to Charles or Scott, finches in a square nest,
both too Apollonian for a death
sublime, torrid rebirth, an empty chest.