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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345507" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Touch</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">For months my hand was sealed off <br>in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings. <br>Perhaps it is bruised, I thought, <br>and that is why they have locked it up. <br>You could tell time by this, I thought, <br>like a clock, by its five knuckles <br>and the thin underground veins. <br>It lay there like an unconscious woman <br>fed by tubes she knew not of. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hand had collapse, <br>a small wood pigeon <br>that had gone into seclusion. <br>I turned it over and the palm was old, <br>its lines traced like fine needlepoint <br>and stitched up into fingers. <br>It was fat and soft and blind in places. <br>Nothing but vulnerable. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And all this is metaphor. <br>An ordinary hand - just lonely <br>for something to touch <br>that touches back. <br>The dog won't do it. <br>Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog. <br>I'm no better than a case of dog food. <br>She owns her own hunger. <br>My sisters won't do it. <br>They live in school except for buttons <br>and tears running down like lemonade. <br>My father won't do it. <br>He comes in the house and even at night <br>he lives in a machine made by my mother <br>and well oiled by his job, his job. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The trouble is <br>that I'd let my gestures freeze. <br>The trouble was not <br>in the kitchen or the tulips <br>but only in my head, my head. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then all this became history. <br>Your hand found mine. <br>Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. <br>Oh, my carpenter, <br>the fingers are rebuilt. <br>They dance with yours. <br>They dance in the attic and in Vienna. <br>My hand is alive all over America. <br>Not even death will stop it, <br>death shedding her blood. <br>Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom <br>and the kingdom come.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345507" data-title="The Touch de Anne Sexton" data-description="For months my hand was sealed off 
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings. 
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought, 
and that is why they have locked it up. 
You could tell time by this, I thought, 
like a clock, by its five knuckles 
a..."></div>
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