weekend reblog 12 via crashinglybeautiful:
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.— Naomi Shihab Nye, “Making a Fist” (from saturnrising & goodwinter)
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mustard yellow
Nomads & their eagles, by John Delaney
Homeless Family - Mary Ellen Mark, 1987
Multiple Exposure Photographs
be my angel lV
be my angel lll
wf 4 on Flickr.
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