The Masters

Photo by Phuc-Thanh Mai Vo On Unsplash

After the nurse left, I sat
with my sister’s death,
alone, choosing pictures
for the funeral.

It was stuffy—I turned on the TV,
a window to fresh air.
Past midnight, a couple made love.
I blushed—
evidence of life.

Just then the undertakers came,
black-suited like officials,
hands clasped. “Our condolences.”
I couldn’t respond.

Perhaps they too saw the screen,
the desperate flesh.
From their gestures, I read:
We will forgive you.

In less than ten minutes,
the masters sealed her
into a glossy black bag.

As they slid her into the hearse,
her neck caught the frame,
snapped back.
One tucked it in like folding a mannequin.
Even her fiery temper knew
whom she had to obey.

Twenty years on,
that moment holds.
Did they judge the house—
or me—indecent?

Am I still guilty?
Yet she hasn’t come to complain.
I take a pill
and sleep.