The Thirteenth Labor

Jonathan Wells

For Hercules, the thirteenth labor,

is allowing the mortal lovers to go

back to their separate beds unreconciled,

to leave well enough alone,

to let their oaths uncouple

from their stars, to abandon the

strange planets

to the idiosyncrasies of their orbits.

To shun the power that Zeus

had given, Hercules searches for fortitude

along an ordinary shore where all waves

reach their breaking point, some staring

with demonic eyes

while others lap

the beach rhapsodically.

Recovering, he asks

the heavens for extra strength, not sleight

of hand or muscles he’d flexed before

cleaning or slaughtering or filching

the golden apples of the nymphs.

He prays for

a mind that would leave the lovers

alone with their distrust.

But that is another fantasy

of self-possession, of holding himself in check,

letting love be love; love refused, or

breathing lightly or unloved

like unpicked apples. The lovers’ slurs,

staccato, strike the night and he is

certain that turning away

is his one impossible labor.