None

Hayden Carruth

You died. And because you were Greek they gave you

          a coin to carry under your tongue and then also

biscuits and honey. When you came to the riverbank

          you saw a crazy-looking black bumboat on the water

with a figure standing in it, lanky and dressed

          darkly, holding a sweep. You were taken across,

and you gave your coin for the passage, and continued

          until you came to a three-headed dog, who snarled

and threatened you, even though you were not trying

          to escape. You gave him the biscuits smeared

with honey, and you passed onward to the field

          of asphodel and through the gate of Tartarus. Or

you died and you were Navajo. They had carried you

          out of the hogan earlier so you’d die in the sunshine.

Or if it happened inside suddenly, they stuffed up

          the smokehole and boarded the front entrance, and cut

an opening in the back, the north-facing, dark-facing

          side, to carry you out, and no one ever used

that hogan again. They took off your moccasins

          and put them on again wrong side to, the left one

on the right foot, the right on the left, so that your

          chindi would be confused and unable to return

along your tracks. They washed your hair in suds

          made from the yucca. Then they gave you

enough fried bread and water to last four days,

          and you set off on your journey. But actually

none of these things happened. You just died.