The broken spider
spins webs inside her,
laboring with broken legs.
The web weaves crooked,
so her lies sound stupid;
a broken spider can still lay eggs.
And, lay them it does
before it curls into dust
and sifts into the folds of her brain.
Where in the warmth of her throat,
a spider sack grows,
spilling spiders like black chalky rain.
She chokes on their cancer,
while they bite and harass her,
vomiting black clouds of ballooning arachnids.
She coughs into the wind,
spraying them like phlegm;
they’ll find homes in the brains of her kids.
–Michael Johnson
Koyotee Laughing 