Friday, June 7, 2013

Death

Making a Fist

BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE
    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

Injustice

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


Annie

Annie