Rhonda C. Poynter

BEDTIME STORY

The stars bloom like
Silver thistle, and

Night slivers itself
Against the river.

The road we walked,
Soaked through from sudden

Winter has faith,
And waits for us, again.

The stars bloom like
Silver thistle, and

Pin your name to
Morning:

The wind does nothing.
It's a silly child,

Throwing pebbles at the
Moon.

* * *

SONNET (LUPUS AT THREE A.M.)

I have this figured out, at last:
This is because of a past life.
I no doubt stood on deck, and turned my back,
On drowning souls in dying light:
I left them to their God and prayers,
As I escaped into a small warm boat.
Midnight rocked me, moonlight smoothed my hair
While others swallowed heartless night.
I have this figured out: my bones
Were always meant to drown.
This is just a strange and different ship
And I will go down
Into the depths. I've always known
What's meant to come of me -

This will take my blood, my bones, my soul
And commit them to the sea.

Rhonda C. Poynter has been published in many magazines, journals and anthologies, most recently Triggerfish, Blue Bear Review, Dark Matter, Wascana Review, Minnetonka Review (which awarded her their Editor's Best and a $150 prize, for a set of three poems) and Tipton Poetry Journal(which nominated her for a Pushcart Prize). Poynter has one published book of poetry Start the Car (Warthog Press, 1998); she is now working on her second collection Ghost Sickness, a reference to the genetic medical issues that she and her son Gannon both deal with.