The Desert on Sunday
You have climbed on ahead of me while I stop
to tally what's here and alive--
screwbean mesquite, its spiral fruit.
Prickly pear, one spongy hand
popped out of the palm of another.
A labyrinth spider,
deep in the pouch-shape of her web. Strands
beard the web mouth, speckle it with food,
with tiny corpses. And you have climbed on.
Ahead of me. Deep
in her thousand egg sac, Spider Old Woman
is weaving an entrance
and a path. Stars, and a night to hold them.
I am an empty cup in the kiln of the desert.
Gail C. DiMaggio watched her husband pursue his music in a world where no artist ever gives up a day gig. She refuses to become discouraged. Besides, she's obsessed. Her work's appeared recently in Blue Lyra Review, Adanna, Antiphon, Allegro and elsewhere.