Averno
︎︎︎ Erico Silva
︎ Jan 29, 2026
When I first saw a dead man, I thought:
How passive, how not like sleep at all,
As mother had told it when we arrived
Arrayed in black. This one had gone out in the early
Hours (a week prior, last year);
On the blacktop a semi
Strayed into oncoming traffic.
He went out, they said, painlessly,
Instantly, and, they added, at least there’s that.
He shared my brother’s name.
When I first heard the news, I thought of
My brother who then lived far away and fear
Like nothing else gripped me. Now, of course,
I know better how easy the way to Averno. The door
Is always open, and just beyond: the cool grass,
The oversweet scent of asphodels, like rotting meat. To cross
That country twice is what is hard.
It’s the hardness of passivity that was
Most strange, not quite like stone. When they say
It’s like sleep, they forget how when you sleep all
The muscles in your face relax as if the will has just
Stepped out for the night, perhaps to glide
Above the black country. In the end,
It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.
Everything is pulled tight
As a taut, white string
By something other than will.
How passive, how not like sleep at all,
As mother had told it when we arrived
Arrayed in black. This one had gone out in the early
Hours (a week prior, last year);
On the blacktop a semi
Strayed into oncoming traffic.
He went out, they said, painlessly,
Instantly, and, they added, at least there’s that.
He shared my brother’s name.
When I first heard the news, I thought of
My brother who then lived far away and fear
Like nothing else gripped me. Now, of course,
I know better how easy the way to Averno. The door
Is always open, and just beyond: the cool grass,
The oversweet scent of asphodels, like rotting meat. To cross
That country twice is what is hard.
It’s the hardness of passivity that was
Most strange, not quite like stone. When they say
It’s like sleep, they forget how when you sleep all
The muscles in your face relax as if the will has just
Stepped out for the night, perhaps to glide
Above the black country. In the end,
It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.
Everything is pulled tight
As a taut, white string
By something other than will.
Erico Silva is a writer and scientist living in Reykjavík, Iceland.