Short Woman

Not the short woman in question, but yet another strong Mongolian woman.

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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