There hangs the male in her web;
From her allure he did not ebb.
It was by sense he chose her bed;
Before she finished, he was dead.
Thus it seems to be
He to die and she to go free.
For the species of black widow to live,
It is the male his life must give–
Given or taken, I cannot tell;
I see only what here befell.

His bones hang alone,
But how could he have known
That her embrace meant death, not life,
That she would be nobody’s wife?
But “here” just look around:
The webs are full, and they abound,
For every male that seeks a mate
Could be a victim of this fate
And hang here in legalities as dead
From the poison that she has spread.

120500
thepoet5555@hotmail.com

*By ‘tarantula’, I’m referring to mygalamorphs.