Gran Torino Gigan

Like crawling into a forest at night, that station-
wagon, as piney, as vast. Branches shushing.

You could spend your entire childhood
in the way-back. Buzzes fade up front,
where beltless adults murmur and smoke

after unfurling musty sleeping bags
in the trunk, mine printed red, white, and blue

in senseless zigzags, with a sharp zipper.
Numberless cousins nested there, lulled

to sleep as soon as the big car creaked
onto the parkway, green like a pine forest

of the mind. Unfurled on a musty sleeping bag,
I wouldn’t sleep for years. The stars
are such old ideas, suggesting patterns but

refusing to connect the dots. The future rumbles
beneath us all. I can hear it when no one talks.

• About
• Also by this author

Lesley Wheeler

Lesley Wheeler’s new books are her fifth poetry collection, The State She’s In, and her first novel, Unbecoming. Her work appears in Ecotone, Crab Orchard Review, The Common, and other magazines, and she is Poetry Editor of Shenandoah.

Also by Lesley Wheeler (see all)

• Gran Torino Gigan - June 5, 2020
• Even Wheels Have Edges - February 9, 2020

Author: Lesley Wheeler

Lesley Wheeler’s new books are her fifth poetry collection, The State She’s In, and her first novel, Unbecoming. Her work appears in Ecotone, Crab Orchard Review, The Common, and other magazines, and she is Poetry Editor of Shenandoah. View all posts by Lesley Wheeler