I was a girl I did not fight: I fought the others. I wore a sweater and when the weather pressed me to the river I went under. Things were better. It was a fine brown box. It was a thing for what it was. Every pea in place and stacked beside a thousand rounded dried-up shapes; its sisters. I want a bed to measure. I want a stock to simmer. And in the oil on the surface of the broth I want a mirror.
I want a mirror. I want to be a wall. I want a light and with the light I want a fixture. I did not fight myself but split my knuckles on the canines of a lady, and she bit me. She was pretty. At a party. In my sweater. Stop me if you've heard this: it was better. For a box – for a box I would be better. I would be good. I swear to god I would be good. Made to measure.
I would be good. I would be on my best behavior. For a box that fits my body. For a river. In place a shape – the stocks – a simmer. For a pea. For a box. Forever.