the hot yoga girl

she fancies

hot yoga.

not cold yoga, or tepid

yoga,

or luke warm

yoga,

but hot yoga.

no ceiling fan,

no air-conditioning,

no windows open,

just twenty

bodies

writhing like snakes

in a tight room

trying to escape

their skins.

she likes to sweat,

she likes

to make herself

exhausted

and dripping like

a pink rag doll

in the rain.

she's all muscle

and bones, now,

a sinewy map of

veins.