Can you help me find the figurative language in this poem?
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 in 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.