The Speculum

It wasn’t in the mirror this morning. It had been cleaned out. The sponges and spray bottles were still on the sink, that’s what was odd. After the nightclubs had closed and all the drunks had meandered into the deadly blackness the cleaners came in to mop up.

A few regulars went missing some time ago. If it was just one drunken sod the tales probably would have stopped. Yet next week Sam Bates vanished. Then the rum loitered in the glasses and lips smacked about monsters.

Returning from the ladies I jumped at Sam’s face screaming in the mirror.

© C. Piltz 2014



What strange sorrow should befall this fine morning,

As an imploded star’s deepest blackness should seek to draw out

all of life’s joy from me?

And what sealed box that no key would unlock

Should steal my heart

that forever yearning could never touch

nor hope to possess?

Her eyes her eyes her eyes.

©Cath Piltz