Hercules’ first feat was to slay the Nemean Lion. To lure warriors into its cave, it took the form of a woman in distress. As a warrior would approach to aid the woman, it would transform back into a lion and attempt to devour him.

 

I.

 

The callus of his foot grazes the crest

of stalagmite, knobbles of mottled sandstone

jutting from oblivion. Knuckles bleached

with dread encircle the wooden bludgeon,

each tread punctuated by the palpitation

 

of shrieks. The faint outline of tawny tresses

materializes from the pitch, a shattered torso

draped across the nape of a boulder. Irises

doused in indigo entreat him to approach,

the spigot of her pleas caulked by curling lips.

 

By the next flit of her lash, ripples of feral

muscle protrude from the arch of her vertebra,

rust-tinged mane swelling with a Nemean lust for flesh.

An ink-dipped tassel sways between her hind limbs.

 

Shards of bones taper into sickles of iron,

forepaws slinging toward the flesh of his neck.

He stiffens into an upright cadaver,

conscience awash in a deluge of panic.

 

II.

 

Arching the basin of his wrist,

the bludgeon thrashes towards her

in a visceral retort, splintering

across the crest of her matted brow.

 

Spasms of the blow puncture her

skull. The beast submerges in a state

of rabid stupor, rivulets of blood

pooling near the calluses of his feet.

 

A laurel is wreathed across his brow,

leaves crested like the ellipses of dragonfly

wings, embossed in tints of lustrous gold.

 

Amidst the furor of the crowd,

a sensation of reward remains

as palpable as the panting of the beast.

 

Grace Xu