as they become available. I call a friend
to bridge some distance, maybe
get some reassurance. She talks wine and vodka.

I call another. Her voice, in bells, declares
her path “a spiritual journey,” says she tries only
“to live in a place of love.” I want them to know

that my lost ones follow me. They follow
me to the grocery store, to the river;
in hallways they chatter among themselves.
Even my unborns who have grown up.

Meanwhile, the names stream by in silence.
There are no names for the survivors.