For NOW, ELVIS CAN MEET and TALK with HIS FANS

By Pamela Murray WInters

From Fall 2017

 Elvis is a mess. That cowlick won’t stay down.
 Pimples dot his neck. His hair glints 
 of the gold he was born with. Next year
 

 he’ll dye it black; someone decides
 it’ll photograph better. Here in
 1956, he’s learning the poses: moodily shirtless 
 

 in bed, kissing a girl in a dim hallway,
 seated at an upright, fingers brushing 
 the keys. It’s so we can see the secret birth,
 

 the king-to-be. Whence came that beanstalk vision: 
 the skill of some photographer, the colonel’s 
 gin-eye? Even if ‘56 is the last time he’ll wear 
 

 his own light hair, and shop in record stores 
 alone and slow-dance with his high school girl, 
 normal’s gone with the Tupelo shotgun shack,
 

 gone with Jesse, the dead twin. Normal was
 some night Mama told him that hair’s 
 too long, and wash that face, and grow up.