Prior to midnight, I lie in bed
trying to picture a girl--see her face.
A cat howl disturbs me. Was it a cat? Or a
two-year old child locked out at night?
Walpurgis nacht, and the goat head is rising.
Again, the howl, again, shatters all
mirrors of reflection. The face splinters.
Shards of a girl scatter on blankets.
Rolling over, I bleed as the sharpest
of spikes impales me. Contracting, knees
to my chin for protection, darkness laps
like a steed galloping to a cold sweat
on the shore line in the surf spray.
Thundering echoes, hoofbeats bury
the girl, bury the child, bury...
the mirrors stop.
