The Friend by Marge Piercy

We sat across the table.
he said, cut off your hands.
they are always poking at things.
they might touch me.
I said yes.

Food grew cold on the table.
he said, burn your body.
it is not clean and smells like sex.
it rubs my mind sore.
I said yes.

I love you, I said.
That's very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?

by Marge Piercy

Other poems by 'Marge Piercy'

To the Pay Toilet

Traveling Dream

For the Young Who Want To

The Seven Of Pentacles

Belly Good

Always Unsuitable

Winter Promises

The Morning Half-Life Blues

Implications of One Plus One

Attack of the Squash People

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