Friday, June 7, 2013


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.

Thursday, June 6, 2013


Settled tonight after a couple of hard days. Y has  confronted his brother who wronged him with money.
 My Y is finally speaking up but we are playing a price with little sleep last night. I believe there are things that I still like about Y brother and other behaviors that I don't particularly care for.  I keep the focus on myself and what I can do to keep my side of the street clean.
Not being a doormat is showing up for myself by taking action
going to a meeting calling a friend reading literature