My husband draws the chalk lines around the bodies. 
He has the steadiest hand.

At night, he counts my breaths.
Did you know, he asks, you breathe faster
when you think about breathing?
Once he mentions it, I breathe slower, deeper, 
stretching the time between inhaling and exhaling
so long my lungs ache.
You’re thinking about breathing, my husband tells me,
his hand hovering over my chest, 
right at the spot it will rise to when I inhale.
I spend my nights thinking about breathing, sleepless.

My husband is always thinking about breathing-
the conspicuous absence of a rising chest in a body.
He draws the chalk lines around the victims.
Nothing moves but his hand and the chalk.
Sometimes he expects them to stir; 
sometimes he expects that there has been a mistake
and someone will sit up in the midst of a chalk outline
and say, couldn’t you tell? I was breathing!
My husband counts his breaths all day.
His hand is steady. His lungs are not.

How many breaths? he asks.
How many breaths do you think my body has left in me?
I don’t answer.
I wrap my arms around him, count my breaths,
counting his, matching them.
We are in perfect time.
You’re thinking about breathing, he says.