Poetry ctd.

Yet another poetry assignment. This was inspired by my grandmother (although the characters are not supposed to be true portrayals of Grandma and Papaw), whose love for Elvis Presley must have been bordering on obsession. How I wish this story were true.


Leaving the Building

He was a god. A frequent hip-swaying,
smooth red velvet-tongued,
oil-black haired god.
Crisp ironing board ladies screamed his name
while clutching their bosoms with primly painted nails for fear of heart attack.
Elvis. Presley.

A blur of blond hair and blushing skin
my grandmother, twenty-something and in love
points her toes, straightens her skirt with a trembling tug and
reaches the plain gray, empty stairwell.
After so much color and conversation,
music and memory,
the steps leading out of the concert building are
an unwanted exit from a misplaced section of heaven.

She left someone at home,
a lover, a man who keeps his mouth shut when
“Surrender” echoes in their living room and
politely sings along without overpowering
the voice of a god.
My grandmother appreciates her man’s
careful block-letter love poems and
pictures of foreign buildings with little military men
smiling for the camera.
She appreciates his straight-line lips and weathered hands.
Any other night, she would be anticipating his fingertips.
Tonight, she is drunk and hypnotized
by the winged angel who sings rock and roll.

Her eyes follow the slight curve of the staircase
while adjusting to yellow hazy light.
A shadow boogies with no partner on the wall.
And then, collision, an explosion of light.
Like making love, those dark imitations of bodies
mix and intertwine as my grandmother glimpses her god.
A faltering smile on plump cherry lips,
a jagged intake of breath, hyperventilation.
He is a dream in person.
Elvis brushes past after a moment of awed silence.
Fingers reaching as if to hold on to an escaping memory,
my grandmother grazes the fabric that adorns a flawless being.

In a fog she somehow manages to make it home,
heart waltzing to every footstep.
For this night her body devours every second,
inhaling and exhaling a single moment.
He was a god. This is heaven.
Elvis. Presley.