Often, Black Widow, you emerge

seemingly from the walls

in the damp, dark,

undisturbed coal room.

 

You couldn’t just enter

the room. No,

your eight legs swift

in spurts of three.

 

One-two-three.

Stop.

One-two-three.

Stop.

 

Your pregnant belly

swollen.

The red hour glass

pulsating.

 

Who were you looking for?

 

Sexual cannibalism, lusting

for your next victim.

Venom sloshing

in your glands.

 

Vibration.

You play dead.

He approaches.

 

You flick silk.

Tenderly,

liquefying

his organs

through fangs

so deep.