Marge Piercy


Barbie Doll. The Secretary Chant.

Barbie Doll

This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stores and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a far nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearly,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up puttly nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.

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The Secretary Chant

My hips are a desk.
From my ears hang
chains of paper clips.
Rubber hands 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 canceled 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.

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