evening and my dead once husband

rises up from the spirit board

through trembled air i moan

the names of our wayward sons

and ask him to explain why

i fuss like a fishwife why

cancer and terrible loneliness

and the wars against our people

and the room glimmers as if washed

in tears and out of the mist a hand

becomes flesh and i watch

as its pointing fingers spell

it does not help to know

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