Marge Piercy

The hinge of the year

and then slowly slowlyclosing on us.I always imagine those gateshanging over the oceanfiery over the stone greywaters of evening.We cast what we mustchange about ourselvesonto the waters flowingto the sea. The sins,errors, bad habits, whateveryou call them, dissolve.When I was little I criedout I! I! I! I want, I want.Older, I feel less important,a worker…

Girls buck the wind in the grooves toward work

The shop windows snickerflashing them hurrying over dresses they cannot afford:you are not pretty enough, not pretty enough.Blown with yesterday’s papers through the boiled coffee morningwe dream of the stop on the subway without a name,the door in the heart of the grove of skyscrapers,that garden where we nestle to the teats of a furry…

The Secretary Chant

My hips are a desk,From my ears hangchains of paper clips.Rubber bands form my hair.My breasts are quills ofmimeograph ink.My feet bear casters,Buzz. Click.My head is a badly organized file.My head is a switchboardwhere crossed lines crackle.Press my fingersand in my eyes appearcredit and debit.Zing. Tinkle.My navel is a reject button.From my mouth issue canceled…

The people I love the best

without dallying in the shallowsand swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.They seem to become natives of that element,the black sleek heads of sealsbouncing like half-submerged balls.I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,who strain in the mud and the muck to…

And thus the people every year

did sacrifice themselvesto the long green phallic godand eat and eat and eat.They’re coming, they’re on us,the long striped gourds, the silkybabies, the hairy adolescents,the lumpy vast adultslike the trunks of green elephants.Recite fifty zucchini recipes!Zucchini tempura; creamed soup;sauté with olive oil and cumin,tomatoes, onion; frittata;casserole of lamb; bakedtopped with cheese; marinated;stuffed; stewed; driventhrough the…