Compressions

As I perform my skills test 

on the rubber mannequin

it strikes me that

the movements used

to save a life 

are the same repetitions 

that create it—

my hands lightly lifting

the chin as if I might kiss

the cheek, my eyes

watching for rise and fall 

of the chest, my fingertips

placed at the vulnerable

curve of the neck, feeling 

for a pulse. And then

my palms, one on top of

the other like two lovers’ hips

compressed, my fingers

intertwined like legs woven

between sheets, pumping 

my weight into the

dummy’s breastbone 

with enough depth to squeeze

the heart, enough thrust

to snap a rib, the way I imagine 

God did when He took 

the shard of bone from Adam’s side 

to form the woman—

the way their bodies swayed together

            for the first time,

her womb quivering

like a heart starved for blood.