Naomi Shihab Nye
Making A Fist
We forget that we are all dead men conversing wtih dead men.
—Jorge Luis Borges
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.
Naomi Shihab Nye's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Making A Fist by Naomi Shihab Nye )
- Yankee go Home, Charles Hice
- Sun Sets, Lore Me34
- Dreams, Kshitiz Gupta
- If Only, Kshitiz Gupta
- Science and Religion, SANDIP GOSWAMI
- ............. Traveling To Meet Minor In.., Is It Poetry
- So Much More, Sandra Feldman
- 157. An Ex's Word Is Easily Broken, John Westlake
- Kiss Me, Adriana Avilaa
- She Knew it was Irrational, Jacqueline Nash
Poem of the Day
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(22 March 1941 -)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Heather Burns