Are you OK?

The mannequins are named for a girl who drowned;

her parents

had her likeness made—blue sweats, white sneakers,

blond latex hair.

If there's no response, tip back the chin, place your cheek

near the lips.

Look for the breast to rise, listen for a rush of air, feel

moist breeze

against your cheek. If you don't, seal your lips around

the mouth,

fingers pinch the nose. Big breath in, and blow. It feels,

in real life,

or should I say real death, as if lungs are sponge, breath

is water.

Now, slide two fingers to feel the carotid artery.

No pulse?

Mark a point two finger-breadths from the xiphoid tip

that breaks off

easily when you compress, that TV action shot of nurses

high astride

as stretchers barrel down the hall, although they rarely

do it right.

Arms straight, you pump one and two and three and four

until you hit

fifteen. Then, give two more breaths. It's like dancing—

bodies light,

partners so well rehearsed they glide, one deferring slightly

to the other's grace.

If you're lucky, your patients come around, more like

they come up,

lungs frothing, eyes watery and stained by what they've seen.

They found Annie,

I was told, sodden, blue. They took her home and placed her

in the parlor. ...

Tonight, another class. Citizens, coming down the stairs,

you'll do fine!

First, are you all right, are you OK? Then, your lips

kissing hers.