I exhale into the body. I blow
again, more forcefully. I chase
down the corridor of breath
but the chest does not rise. I try
tipping the forehead back and pinching
the nostrils shut. My hands are too small.
Desperately, I will the lungs to inflate.
Perhaps I’ve been given
an imperfect mannequin. Am I
the only one who can’t raise a pulse
in its false heart?
So I train to save you. You,
the ones I love. The instructor
bellows, “The victims
are vomiting!” I manage to turn
this second you, this lifeless
form onto its side, but bang the head.
The plastic, lifelike features mock me.
Already I’m forgetting how
to place my hand on your chest, how many
counts to push, how many to puff.
Awkward, demoralized, I practice
frantically. Imperfect as I am,
I might be all the rescue that you’ll have.
The only one available to cross the Styx
and coax you back. This 15-count compression
rows me, steadfast, into the gathering
skies of Hades.
If you go, know I will come to fetch you home.
Even though the black river rocks and wails.
Even though the current grapples at the small boat.
I will persevere toward the dim other shore.
I will come for you weeping
at my own ineptness,
petitioning the altar of your lips.
Now this kiss, the only prayer that answers.
