Do Something, Hercules
A Poem by Stephen Hundley
In Cooke County a child is born
to a woman in a bathtub. Spare us
the constellation winds, the fist
and boot. The pull
and tear us. You can’t get a grip
on the wind, Hercules. See
a hydra with no heads. Watch
and warning, god-son.
They are immaterial, hiding
trucks in trees and appearing at whim.
You cannot lock them up
behind a gate of lightning after all.
We are mortal.
Think mortal,
Cooke County. We are roofs,
walls, beams, and roads. Our head
is kicked in. Our brains are powerlines
slung into the woods, so we are
dim, tipping back the pie pan
of rain water, laughing drunk
beneath the tarpaulin, taking
the dive, watching the sky
for Hercules to appear
and haul the wind away,
but he’s wasted here.
The country torn open. We are
pagan and miniscule,
pinned under the titans again.
Stephen Hundley (he/him) is the author of the novel, Bomb Island (Hub City Press, 2024), and the story collection, The Aliens Will Come to Georgia First (University of North Georgia Press, 2023). His stories and poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Cream City Review, Carve, The Greensboro Review, and elsewhere. He holds an MAE from Clemson, an MFA from the University of Mississippi, and a PhD in English from Florida State University. He currently lives in St. Augustine, where he is the Storytellers Author in Residence at Flagler College.
