Naomi Shihab Nye(12 March 1952 / St. Louis, Missouri)
Making A Fist
- by Naomi Shihab Nye47
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.
- by Naomi Shihab Nye38
If you place a fern under a stone the next day it will be nearly invisible as if the stone has swallowed it.
If you tuck the name of a loved one under your tongue too long without speaking it it becomes blood sigh the little sucked-in breath of air hiding everywhere beneath your words.
No one sees the fuel that feeds you.
Submitted by R. Joyce Heon
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