Down the halls
In heels too tall,
A size too large
To fit without
Slipping,
She thunders
In the empty hall
With each strike
Of her lightning.
Creaky doors sway
As she passes from
Room to room,
Each floor a new
Pattern of painted
Linoleum
Not quite applied
Correctly.
Passing by an office
Filled with singing
Voices,
She peeks in
To view with her
Own eyes,
And out again
Like a pair
Of hurricanes.
She exits the hall,
Her thunder stolen,
Echoless in the
White sun,
Down the steps
And out the
Turnstile
Towards dirt roads
That lead to home.
Composed 06/15/2012
Author’s note: I wrote this about one of my language teachers during training. She was one of the most compact women I think I’ve ever seen, but there is something to be said about Mongolian women: They are tough. Tough in a feminine way, not tough in the masculine sense. I feel like when we talk about tough women, we frame them in a masculine sense of the word. Just my hunch about such things. I find the women out here to be some of the strongest I’ve ever encountered in my travels. It was very hot and bright this day as well. Quite the contrast to the cloudy cold I find myself surrounded by now.
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