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More poems by Marge PiercyMarge Piercy | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments (1) | Books by Marge PiercyBooks by Marge Piercy

The Friend

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?


Submitted by SorrowOfCeres

Added: 14 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 21 Jul 2018 9:23 PM | Viewed: 7761 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/8969/ | Viewed on 21 July 2018.
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