Making a Fist

　　 by Naomi Shihab Nye

　　 For the first time， on the road north of Tampico，

　　 I felt the life sliding out of me，

　　 a drum in the desert， harder and harder to hear.

　　 I was seven， I lay in the car

　　 watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.

　　 My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

　　 "How do you know if you are going to die？"

　　 I begged my mother.

　　 We had been traveling for days.

　　 With strange confidence she answered，

　　 "When you can no longer make a fist."

　　 Years later I smile to think of that journey，

　　 the borders we must cross separately，

　　 stamped with our unanswerable woes.

　　 I who did not die， who am still living，

　　 still lying in the backseat behind all my questions，

　　 clenching and opening one small hand