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
My head is a wastebasket
of worn ideas.
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 once
was
a woman.
![Share on Facebook facebook](http://web.archive.org./web/20150928202421im_/http://www.fifthestate.org/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/48x48/facebook.png)
![Share on Twitter twitter](http://web.archive.org./web/20150928202421im_/http://www.fifthestate.org/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/48x48/twitter.png)
![Share on Linkedin linkedin](http://web.archive.org./web/20150928202421im_/http://www.fifthestate.org/wp-content/plugins/social-media-feather/synved-social/image/social/regular/48x48/linkedin.png)