Poems by Gerry LaFemina

Accident Report

Because I’d left the windows cracked overnight. Because it was spring. Because overnight became a three-day weekend. Because the swifts are so swift I never caught a glimpse of them. Because they built their nest in a niche behind the driver’s seat, in a nifty space by the footwell so that it was all but invisible from my point of view. Because the temperature had risen and I turned on the A/C, closed those windows tight. Because the bird did what birds do. Because this was like a scene I’d seen in a Hitchcock film too many times before. Because I’d stomped the accelerator accidentally. Because I couldn’t see in the maelstrom of feathers and wings. Because I was lucky no one was coming when I rushed past the stop sign. Because when I found the brake pedal the car screeched to a halt, there against the parked minivan, the “baby on board” sign shaking in its back window. Because when I opened the door, the swift took flight leaving my heart like a frightened bird. How difficult it was then to swallow. See, there in the backseat, those two eggs in their straw bowl, safe and secure.

Lycanthropy

for Mercedes

Some Saturdays after late-night Kolchak reruns or Lon Chaney chillers, I want to go out and get bitten by a wolf just for the chance to transform every full moon, to sit in our livingroom fur-itchy and restless. I’d be the dog you always wanted—you’d scratch my ears, I’d lick your face, growl at the mailman, and long to chase every Chevy that passes. Eventually, I’d curl at your feet, both of us listening to the mountain wind. Oh, the thrill of that howling.