"Elvis and Momma"

 Chapter 1: Momma Remembers the King but Can’t Remember My Name

Half my life, that oil portrait

of a too-tan Las Vegas Elvis

hung in the hallway

of Momma’s house.

Now, she may not know

my name most days.

Now, I’m her best friend.

But she knows that when

The King died, she pulled

over on the side of the road

and cried. Probably for about

a week straight, she says.

Now, the portrait she painted

hangs in the hallway of our house

in Bon Secour, after forty years

at Momma’s. When she notices

it now, she asks and answers herself,

Is he dead now?

Yes. He’s in heaven now.

I used to know him and his momma.

And she shimmies and sings

I get so lonely, baby,

word for word, Elvis steady

drowns out the memories

till there’s no room left for us.

Sometimes I just stop and stare at him,

like I did when he was freshly painted,

and I see my future laid out

like a dried-up corn field,

stalks withering to nothing.

Chapter 2: Elvis Bearing Witness

 --after hanging that portrait of Elvis (painted by my momma in 1980) in our new house

He was a good boy.

His life-sized oil portrait guarded our hallway.

Oh, he loved his momma—

as if loving his momma was his ticket to heaven.

His life-sized oil portrait guarded our hallway,

bore witness to calloused fingers that clutched and bruised tender biceps.

Still, Momma thought she was Daddy’s sole ticket to heaven,

so she stayed, not too much harm was done.

Why acknowledge calloused fingers? Let them touch and bruise. Tender biceps

grow stronger and learn to suppress, anyway.

So Momma let him stick around; not too much harm was done.

We all knew she always loved him more than us.

Grow stronger. Learn to suppress, anyway.

We like to think he loved his momma.

Momma always knew she loved him more than us.

Wasn’t he such a good boy?