i give CPR on the anniversary of 9/11
Emily Mather
and I feel ridiculous
shouting at a face that is eyeless
and hairless and boneless— hey,
are you okay— so I choose to morph this face
into you. My mother, my sister, my
friend of the family for however long it’s been
since we first heard our name
on your lips, breathless
lips, lips inhaling confusion and exhaling burn
as the heart of the tower gapes, heaving
ash, but you are unresponsive— what
do you do? Press the sternum
until you hear a click. One...two—
someone screams
on the TV and someone else on the street because they
weren’t expecting that, no weren’t expecting
that, so how do we explain
something we’ve never seen before, like the puncture
of plane against ribcage, hands invading room after room
after room of people who didn’t know today
was the day they would find themselves
gasping, fading, compressing— twenty-eight...
twenty-nine...thirty. Head-tilt, chin-
lift, breathe,
breathe— your chest rises with a click, falls, rises,
falls and sticks. I breathe into your plastic mouth
until my head turns to light
and smoke and there are spots like debris
falling down the air, and I imagine the sky
behind you
as blue paint, as all the people who meant to kiss you
good morning raising their blue hands to catch you. Stop
compressions if someone else arrives to take over, if there is
an obvious sign of life, if you
become too exhausted to continue, if
the scene becomes unsafe.
I cannot rip
my gaze from your sister-face, mother-
face, friend-face, and I affix your face to other
bodies too, to falling bodies because I need
to know what it means to see a shadow that could be
the person you love deciding— because
it must be done— to jump.
Your face
becomes ash, becomes plastic— press until
you hear a click— and I imagine breaking
your ribs because they say
this is what must be done. I find
I am not afraid to save you.