She is thin and under six feet
Part of the minority of contractor women
On a base full of males
I imagine her catching sight of her body
In a full-length mirror in her dusty, little room
Appraising her nakedness
Under a brutal Afghan sun
within a hard, surgical introspection
The long legs
The vein that pulsates at the very edge of her hipbone
She is reminded of the lean years in Sarajevo
By the shadow of her ribs
When hunger was a constant companion
And the incoming shells, insistent and unwelcome guests
she stares at the years as they show on her hands
The bones roll beneath taut skin as she flexes her fingers
As if they are claws
She imagnes scratching a man's face
Watching in fascination as the blood wells from the wounds
And then this thought
Slithers away like a frightened reptile
Her eyes stare back at her, doe-like, deep brown under long lashes
No make up needed
Her hair, so short, so EUROPEAN
Radiating from chestnut roots out to spiky, lemonade ends
A slightly protruding belly
A protective rubbing with her cat-like hands
Wishing a child resided there, a barren desert
And like a muddy pool of water
The thought evaporates, and conspires to bring her back to her room
She dresses slowly, mechanically, within a massive melancholy
She exits the room
Walking to work past the small group of women huddled together
Speaking in whispers and malicious gossip
And she pretends not to notice
Their barely disguised hostility