"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 wells 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 cancelled reams.
Swollen, heavy, rectangular
I am about to be delivered
of a baby
Xerox Machine.
File me under W
because I wonce
was
A woman.