This is my tiny box of words. I write in it. It is a gender-box, because it likes the color red and Boxing Day, but I manipulate it to become more fem - to like the month of May and cover up with woven cloth saris. I encourage it to perform checks/balances in the women parts about loving one another, forget-me-nots, and harmless mother snakes, who go hiding in its four ample corners, and I inhabit one of its corners. I birth the eggs and nurse the newborn; legs in ninety-degree angles, shoulders, hips squared against so many sensual sides of fat cushioning tables. Valuable cellulite bedding for fragile bird bones, spider webs to catch the silken white milk dripping. Things we can touch, like inner thighs and neck hollows exposed; ear lobes and ten tiny toes - happily dwell, and of course it’s the birch bark papering - in layers, which cover me - white, yellow, brown and protective - the repurposed sides of once circular mounds; shapes, dimensions and universal gendered appeal. My box and I play a game: 200 words or a birth, whichever comes first. She beats me, hands down (most of the time), my prize garnering uterus.