The Secretary Chant

by Marge Piercy

My hips are a desk, 
From my ears hang 
chains of paper clips. 
Rubber bands form my hair. 
My breasts are quills of 
mimeograph ink. 
My feet bear casters, 
Buzz. Click. 
My head is a badly organized file. 
My head is a switchboard 
where crossed lines crackle. 
Press my fingers 
and in my eyes appear 
credit and debit. 
Zing. Tinkle. 
My navel is a reject button. 
From my mouth issue canceled reams. 
Swollen, heavy, rectangular 
I am about to be delivered 
of a baby 
Xerox machine. 
File me under W 
because I wonce 
a woman.

          Marge Piercy, 1973

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