The strong woman lies underneath a pile of rocks. When she was born they called her a boy. She keeps her breathing shallow so the beasts can’t hear her. She wonders if she can stop her heart. She wonders if she can stop her blood from flowing. Would that help? If she could stop her brain from thinking? Stop any motion or activity typical of the living? The strong woman wonders how successfully one can play dead before actually becoming dead, while she waits until it is safe, at the bottom of a creek, at the crest of summer, when all things are foaming, restless, delirious. The strong woman lies on a pile of laundry. It is 3 ‘o'clock in the morning. She meant to get to it sooner. It will be difficult to put things away in the dark when the children are sleeping. She relaxes her joints for a second, letting the skirts and onesies, cardigans and jeans support her. She doesn’t remember the last time she ate. She drank the leftover water from the dinner cups while she washed the dishes. She’s learned to do this to avoid the saline drip. She can hear music leaking from the far corner of a dream. Flute and piano. It sounds familiar. She pulls its plug, pushes her lazy ass up. It’s time. It’s folding and hanging time, for the playroom is still a wreckage of whimsically shaped plastics. The strong woman stays at her mother’s bedside holding her hand. Her mother remembers her very well. Her mother calls her names. Bitch. Loser. Whore. Ungrateful. Stupid. Foolish. Fat. Her mother tells her she was a waste of sperm. Her mother tells her she tried to get her money back for the abortion that didn’t work. The strong woman keeps her eyes turned down from her mother. She will never tell her mother she loves her, but she can push a pill through her grimace. She can lift a cup to her mouth. She can be quiet. She can be someone there. She can count her remaining breaths and document them for posterity, for her mother mean and dying, is a strong woman too. The strong woman stays with her husband though he rarely peeps up out of the eyes of the lava monster that has consumed him. She clears paths for the flames of rage that lick out of it. She keeps his cupboards stocked with fuel. Her cupboards are stocked with ointments, bandages, and creams. She covers their bed in foil. Disables all the smoke alarms. Buys him fire resistant suits, so that when they go out, in public, arm in arm, no one is the wiser. The strong woman runs for office. She goes door to door. Knocking. She wears neat skirts, pumps and blazers. She learns to smile as people bang and slam their entrances. She learns to stand up straight as an angel. She learns how to concentrate the purity, coolness and light of the moon in her gaze. She learns how be patted on the back. She learns how to be congratulated for easy things. She learns how to punch pillows silently in the dark. The strong woman runs through the neighborhood at dawn while the houses and their dogs are still sleeping, so no one can see, as she slowly works muscle, sheds fat, becomes stronger. One day, in three months time, at the party, someone will tell her she looks great, and she will shrug in that perfect dress, and she will say that it is no effort at all, she will say that it is easy, that she was just born that way and she will not talk about training to outrun cheetahs which is all she ever dreams about. The strong woman is everywhere, doing every manner of thing: sitting in seats, eating edible food, and listening to audible music. She sleeps in sleeping bags and watch movies made of pictures that move. Strong women walk over rocky rocks, watching silver scales of fishy fish shine under the hot sun. Strong women scrape the tough bark of trees. They loose their hair to the blowing wind. They throw their mouths up to catch the rain from the raining clouds. All water is wet. Everything wet has been touched by water.