Three Ways Elvis Didn’t Die
by Elizabeth Broadbent
One
Somewhere in America, a red Cadillac cruises down a long, straight ribbon of highway, a highway you trace as you lull yourself to sleep. A Coors Light sits in his cupholder. A Marlboro Light dangles from his lips. He sings “Sweet Home, Alabama,” or “God Bless the USA” or the national fucking anthem. He dreams of soft pussy and hard liquor, soldier-boy, purple-hearted hip-shaker, your teenage dream. His highway never ends. His beer never empties. He never reaches L.A., that overripe slut of America, but gas always costs a buck-o-five and freedom’s always free.
Two
He swears silence and cuts a tonsure. Never again will Memphis blues swell from his chest, never again will his hips shake dreams from pretty girls. Mass begins, an offering obscure. Christ on His cross and God in His heaven and the Paraclete in his heart. Even his bones sing praise, monks suspect, but they are sworn to silence born from love of the Lord. He lives in litanies, a rhythm old as Anthony in the desert. His head bows. He has found his Graceland.
Three
In a little pink house, he sings John Mellencamp and washes up their supper dishes. His voice has gone scratched but his hips still sway. Irene loves Fat Elvis, Hummels, and her Chi-weenies. When day goes dark, they make love. Viagra helps. He imagines girls long gone to memory and time’s rude ravages. A vanilla candle burns. A snatch of blues seizes him. He could die out here in this small town of small streets and smaller minds. Irene has never seen a real live peacock.
Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Broadbent
