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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345499" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Moss Of His Skin</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345499" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">'Young girls in old Arabia were often buried alive next<br>to their fathers, apparently as sacrifice to the goddesses<br>of the tribes…'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345499" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">-Harold Feldman, 'Children of the Desert' Psychoanalysis<br>and Psychoanalytic Review, Fall 1958</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345499" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">It was only important<br>to smile and hold still,<br>to lie down beside him<br>and to rest awhile,<br>to be folded up together<br>as if we were silk,<br>to sink from the eyes of mother<br>and not to talk.<br>The black room took us<br>like a cave or a mouth<br>or an indoor belly.<br>I held my breath<br>and daddy was there,<br>his thumbs, his fat skull,<br>his teeth, his hair growing<br>like a field or a shawl.<br>I lay by the moss<br>of his skin until<br>it grew strange. My sisters<br>will never know that I fall<br>out of myself and pretend<br>that Allah will not see<br>how I hold my daddy<br>like an old stone tree.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a></strong></div>