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