Six monarch butterfly cocoons clinging to the back of your throat— you could feel their gold wings trembling. You were alarmed. You felt infested. In the downstairs bathroom of the family home, gagging to spit them out— and a voice saying Don’t, don’t—
You put a bag around your head and walked into the river. You walked into the river with a bag around your head and you were never dead game on the banks of your mental styx for the double audience of smoke— — You pressed a coin into his palm and stepped across the water. You stepped across the water with a hand on his arm and he was silent and kind as you shoved off, toward the smoky coils of the greek-seeming dead— You’d been trying to sleep. Found yourself here in the mythocryptic land— The river — had widened to a lake. You were anchored in the shallow boat by his faceless weight— And on the green shore you could see their vapored residue, how they could smell it, those two―if you slit your wrist you could make them speak. If you — slit your wrist you might be able to sleep. Grief. Grief. Handing you back your coin.