I don't understand this poem, and I read it about 5 times.
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 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 separatley, stamped with our umaswerable 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.