I spoke for my sister on the occasion of her death.
I reassured the kindly and the concerned that I would
curate her memories. Yet, I did not find meaning or
meditative thought in my sister’s death. I did not enter
a state of grace, no comforting floating world softened
further by a glass of wine raised in her name.
I wanted to be with women who would gently prepare
her body to become noble rot, keening songs
to ease her soul’s journey. I wanted to prepare
food, knead rough bread to be eaten while we
boiled linens to apply to her cleaned and oiled skin.
We would have turned her and wrapped her,
bound her breasts, covered her with flowers and herbs.
Instead, I found a mug she used often and threw it away.
Sent her clothes to a shelter, not carefully and kindly folded,
but pushed down hard into the depths of a black bag.
Found the sweater she never returned to me (some things never change).
Canned goods to a foodbank, her cat to a friend,
the internet already was shut down for lack of payment.
Her landlord sent a notice claiming rent until I could clean out her place.
Her neighbor wants to buy her car.
