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Spider Mother

In that top corner, my torch picks out
the eight red eyes of one cunning spider,

wedged like a camera in its nest of wires.
I am the mote in each eye. Her gazes

trap me, like weighted nets
which have taken me down more times

than I care to admit. Once I’m felled,
down she abseils and crawls

tickling, into my ear, to lay eggs
into my brain. Those cells adjust

to their guest with seasons of migraine
through which I rest, until she emerges,

triumphant, through the arch of my mouth,
clad in chainmail of living armour:
...