Raised

I

Salted lavender

soaking through her

sports bra and muscle shirt,

back from her run by 6am,

downs her breakfast of

chopped crucifers and tuna fish,

washed by fair-trade dark roast,

no sugar.

Teaching how to properly do a push-up

to a class of fourteen year old girls;

girls who'd rather wear bras

that do push-ups for them,

wishing above all else,

she could teach these young women

how to resist falling, resist the floor,

resist.

Bing,

bing,

bing.

Cheers for the bell, sudden heat wave,

a reminder that today, too

bore no fruit as her students

to head off to shower,

where they re-apply make-up

and compare breast size.

II

She goes with her fellow teachers

to Stella's Fish Cafe,

eager to discuss education for future women

over vodka in martini glasses,

glasses that stretch like crab nets

to be filled with dimly lit light

and laughter; glasses

like satellites for men

who see well toned thighs

and flat stomachs, stomachs

in which they secretly wish

to mold into

empty pillow cases.