Those women warriors, they know when to be lovers, when to be haters, when to be friends, foes, smooth, soft, hard and dangerous. Those women warriors, they know how to use a grain of sand as a weapon. They can fight you back with your own voice, your own words, your own angry breath. They can climb in and out of your expectations and crawl out of your whims on their hands and knees if necessary. They train in secret camps, in sheds and cornfields and forest glens, under the heavy branches of snow-loaded spruce, at kitchen tables, and at computers in public libraries. They cannot be destroyed. Every time one of them is murdered, she reincarnates, becomes new and young flesh, with flashing eyes and elk and windstorms and wild mustangs and ‘57 Chevys in her hair.