When it rains, it pours outside. Hello California; water still 80% of normal.

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.

—Dana Levin

I found this poem doing the weekly poetry response assignment for English at school. It’s just my type of coffee.