The Friend in  General   

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

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Other poems by Marge Piercy:

• A Work Of Artifice
• Always Unsuitable
• Attack of the Squash People
• Barbie Doll
• Belly Good
• Colors Passing Through Us
• For the Young Who Want To
• Implications of One Plus One
• The Friend
• The Morning Half-Life Blues
• The Neighbor
• The Seven Of Pentacles
• The Woman in the Ordinary
• To Be of Use
• To the Pay Toilet
• Toad Dreams
• Traveling Dream
• Visiting a Dead Man on a Summer Day
• What Are Big Girls Made Of?
• Winter Promises
• You Ask Why Sometimes I Say Stop