Marge Piercy

(March 31, 1936 / Detroit, Michigan)

The Friend


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: Friday, January 03, 2003

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Comments about this poem (The Friend by Marge Piercy )

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  • Colleen Courtney (5/18/2014 7:03:00 PM)

    Hmm....for some reason my first thought after reading this poem was, typical man! ! ! ! Sorry all you nice gentlemen out there! Lol. (Report) Reply

  • S. A. S. (1/17/2009 4:28:00 AM)

    Be wary of anyone whose imagination only goes so far as to use the word nice. Also anyone who thinks that hands are useless.

    Humming 'You've Got a Friend.' Thinking this is probably an older Marge Piercy poem, like that song. (Report) Reply

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