sonnet

 

by Simone Muench & Dean Rader

 

 

This is for the woman with one black wing 
sutured to rain, singing wet elegies aimed
at her younger selves when she smiled bee-sting 
bright for framed photos hooded in flame.

This is for the flame and for the flame 
inside of the flame, perhaps even for 
the self inside of the self—for the name—
but not the rain or the wing or the war,

or the reply from a dead eye. This is
for the anodyne, the caress, the return 
from the shadow inside the song—darkest

scar of midnight’s gnawing. Where we learn
 
to see beyond sight. This is for flight, for
day for night—for more. This is for the door.