disappeared in the engine of his son’s Corvette
and came out without its thumb.
At first he looked at us and grinned
the way he always did when something bad
needed done. Then he ordered Claude to slam the hood
and get the hell to town.
He shoved me in,
took off his shirt, balled it, told me,
grip it tight with both your hands.
I watched it
bloom with blood.
I’d no way of not breathing in
his breath, leaning on his naked chest,
falling off then back into his lap
while Claude took the turns and
the belt and the blades of the Corvette laughed.
Eric Schwerer teaches creative writing at the University of Pittsburgh-Johnstown. His teaching interests also extend to writing workshops for adults recovering from mental illness and teenagers at-risk. He has also coordinated service learning experiences in Tanzania, Ecuador, and central Appalachia. His poems appear regularly in such literary journals as Prairie Schooner, NOR, Paper Street, Fence, The Journal, Cactus Heart, Third Coast, and Diagram. He is the author of two books of poetry, The Saint of Withdrawal and Whittling Lessons.