Every day I wake up and box a kangaroo. The kangaroo calls me a little bitch for not going bare knuckle. I tell him I don’t want to hurt him, to get hurt. The kangaroo laughs. He’s impossibly fast. He’s not even trying. Jab, jab, cross. I plant and take the blows. The kangaroo tells me to breathe, like it’s not him beating the breath clean out of me. Jab, cross, hook. The kangaroo is unrelenting. He asks if I need a break. I say fuck you. The kangaroo and I go rounds until I can’t anymore. Jab, cross, uppercut. The kangaroo disappears when he has me on the ropes. Chucks me under the chin, calls me kid. Jab, jab, cross, hook. Like an amateur, I beg him to come back. Bloody knuckles, spitting teeth. Eyes swollen shut like bruised stars. C’mon, I say. Swaying, punch drunk. Out of my mind with grief and love. The kangaroo drops his guard, opens his arms. I push him away. Hit me, I spit. Stand back and thump my chest. Finish it, I scream. I could, he says. But then who would you fight?