Friday Poetry: Marge Piercy

I coulda chosen a more uplifting poem for my first post of 2008, I suppose. But I and friends have both been reading novels by Ms. Piercy that have caught our attention, and I was just visiting my childhood bedroom in New York, where this poem holds a prominent place on the poetry-decorated door of my closet (yes, my high school closet door is covered with poems). There will be more uplifting posts coming in the next month. Also non-uplifting ones. Word.

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?