Peoria, Tazewell, And Woodford: Here, There & Everywhere

What The Spider Drew by Mike Foster



The spider carves a skull of white lines

And hangs a mask in your window,

A thin bone face

The spider drew for you.


You unstrap your leather manacle,

The band that bonds you to time.

You rub the strange white brand

Around your wrist, you walk away from what time it is.


Outside, trees click and sing.

Cicadas send communiqués

About the invasion; their bards strum chanteys

About the breaking off skin,

The redemption reached through

The cracking back.


Bodies whittle again the wall in fire,

Ash-white, torsos dancing against the wall

In the headlights’ blaze,

The fiery cone of a lantern

Pointed straight up to Rigel.


The spider is waiting inside

Next to your watch. Four trees of cicadas stop talking. You body

Splits open down the spine.

Something crawls out, flexing its wings.


26 August 1976—27 January 2016


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This entry was posted on February 2, 2016 by in Mike Foster, Poetry, Uncategorized.
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