The friend Poem by Marge Piercy
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?
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? very fine poem. tony
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/26/2024 11:39:32 AM # 1.0.0.1119
We sat across the table. he said, cut off your hands. they are always poking at things. they might touch me. I said yes. strange facts. tony