It is her, your sister, she said. Brother and sister cried. What is she doing on radio? Yes, brother cried, it is her, I know. 

When we showed up for the reading drunk, John,
We were in celestial form, unmixed

It is eighty years I listen to fortune teller
Say that reunions with lost ones
                                                                   approach.

Really, mothers, have you been listening? You have forgotten your spectacles and your hearing aids are beeping but you cannot hear them.

No one is willing to suggest
it’s miraculous: the blood-like strain
weeping from the third of several

You must be dead at least ten years.
You must have lived an unremarkable life
before that: a teacher, say, of unremarkable

For the sake of argument pretend
we don't know who they are, this couple,
one on either side of a cast-iron tree

I’d just then turned away
from recording all the charge slips I’d laid
aside during morning rush—gas sales,

Not the kiss alone
      but an essence of kiss,
its dark matter left undisclosed