By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 1999

February fourteenth.
The garage holds last autumn’s chill,
old oil stains, rusted garden tools
no one uses anymore.
Perfect for romance, she thinks,
spinning her first experimental heart
in the farthest corner.

He’s been watching for three days now,
from behind the paint cans.
She knows. Pretends not to,
gives him time to gather courage
in all of his knees.

Males die after mating, usually.
But she’s modern, vegetarian
except for special occasions.

She weaves a heart in the corner of the garage,
perfect symmetry despite her compound eyes
seeing him fractured into forty-eight versions:
the shy one by the toolbox,
the brave one near the door,
the one who trembles when she moves.

“I brought you a gift,” she signals,
silk vibrating at frequencies
only arachnids hear.
The fly wrapped neat as any chocolate, fresh.
She spent an hour choosing,
rejecting three mosquitos (too small)
and a moth (too dusty).

He approaches on tiptoe (all eight of them)
his pedipalps groomed to glossy perfection.
She notices he’s missing his seventh left leg,
probably that crow last Tuesday.
It makes him list slightly starboard,
earnest as a valentine
written by someone just learning cursive.

She could take him now.
He’s close enough, distracted by hope.
One quick wrap, a puncture,
dinner and romance combined—
the way her mother taught her.

Instead she steps back,
begins a second web
three inches from the first.

“Two territories, one understanding,”
she vibrates through the silk.
He freezes, recognizing the gift of distance,
how love might mean
not consuming what you could.