名人诗歌|Making a Fist

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^{1 a sickening pattern past the glass.}

My stomach was a melon split^{2 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^3.

I who did not die， who am still living，

still lying in the backseat behind all my questions，

clenching and opening one small hand