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.
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 )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Sorry I came but I must come, Victor Cruickshank
- Accepting You, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- No Survivors, Victor Cruickshank
- Accumulation Of Essence, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- When, Victor Cruickshank
- Growth and Change, Victor Cruickshank
- A Class to Remember, Victor Cruickshank
- Dedication, Victor Cruickshank
- On his greatness, Laxman Rao
- Frankenstein, Victor Cruickshank