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The poem below is also the
title of my chapbook, Dancing with Elvis and Other
Poems, published November, 2005. To order a copy
($5.00 plus shipping) please
contact me.
Dancing with Elvis
1.
He rounds the curve on my suburban Memphis street. Music
blares
from his gold Cadillac. He looks at me, eyes misty but
pouring into mine
like they’ve found home. Stars drift from his mouth
when he says my name (how did he know my name? But then
i know his).
He says HEY PRETTY WOMAN WOULD YOU LIKE A RIDE?
(and he knows i’m a woman although i’m barely fourteen)
and i say sure, glad i’ve put on my new white shorts and
washed my hair
so it flips up instead of having to be dragged into a
ponytail
(he sees so many women in ponytails and i am different,
i will save him).
i climb into that big rich leather front seat and sit in
the middle,
not hugging the door, sure of myself, sure he’ll see
that i can give him
what nobody else can. He smiles that lazy smile and his
dimples come out
and i get woozy and want to fall right into his mouth,
dive in and slide
into his insides, find the part of him that nobody sees
and pull it out, shining,
the golden calf truly worthy of worship. He takes my
shoulders,
draws me close, curls his arm around me, can’t he hear
my heart thumping
louder and louder, my blood buzzing, buzzing –
let me stay here driving with Elvis forever.
2.
I round the corner on Beale Street, heart of the tourist
section.
I see him, standing in the Visitors’ Information store,
four-color smile
with dimples pasted on, the man whose legs twitched
and made my teenage gut itch every time they did -- Here
he is,
a life-size cutout posed under the sign saying “Welcome
to Memphis,”
those famous hips cocked and loaded, ready for action.
He says HEY PRETTY LADY WOULD YOU LIKE TO DANCE?
and he seems to remember our dream drive. His cardboard
heart
comes alive as I put my arms around him, give him the
love
I’ve had locked away these forty-odd years. We rock back
and forth.
I’m wearing those new white shorts again. This time
I know it’s too late to save him but maybe I can save
myself.
I can give myself this blessing, anoint myself with the
golden memory
of what never was, yet existed, whispered me
into the flesh-and-blood-real-woman years, helped me sit
in the middle
of the seat, not hugging the door, willing to take the
ride, dance the dance,
open my mouth and let the stars come out.
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