My Mother, Roberta "Bobby" Santlofer's poem -- August 15, 1977: Elvis Presley is Dead
August 15, 1977: Elvis Presley is Dead
Dead, they said, at 42 or 45,
Each media man giving another age.
The 42 or 45 year old
First
Most memorable
Rock star
Dead, at 42 or 45, of an ailment…
His glitter
His gyrating hips
His pelvic thrust
All dead and stopped.
He, hospitalized often over the years
For excess weight
Drugs
Loneliness
The loss of sex appeal.
Yet, there I was, at 14, screaming for you.
Me, a shy girl,
A wallflower at the Friday night dances,
Unable to move my hips and eyes into anothers,
My glass of punch spilling
As I tried to get it and myself
Back
To my wall position.
There I was,
A quiet girl, a bookworm,
Forgetting to tell the guys they had nice
Hair
Hands
Thighs
Saying things like Milton used his Book
Of Revelation to graph his heaven.
There I was at 14
On the floor
Screaming at the thrust of your pelvis, your thighs,
Sighing and swooning,
And for the first time the girls all said
Look! She screams and wants him.
She’s joined his fan club.
She just may be one of us.
How I wanted to be one of them
Dying for your sounds, your body,
Your tongue in my mouth.
And for the first few seconds when you sang,
I joined the screaming crowds
I was 14,
And the girls grabbed at my hands and arms saying,
Isn’t he beautiful!
Can’t you just die!
And I saying,
Yes, oh yes!
And though I didn’t know if I wanted you,
I occasionally needed them and their touch;
And you did that for me
Taking me out of my room of book towers
Into your realm of glitter and sexuality,
Into places I needed for a moment before I could return
To my books,
To myself.
And now you who helped me with a certain loneliness
Are dead of loneliness.
Once they pulled for your hair, your clothes, your thighs,
Then left you alone saying,
Hey, baby. We’re done with you.
You’re too old.
Your hips too fleshy.
Your tool not distinctive.
But, look, you were good!
We screamed for you once.
Had fan clubs for you.
But no more.
Your glitter is gone and we don’t want you.
Well, I am sad.
Driving along the New Jersey Turnpike
I hear of your death and pull my car alongside.
I get out.
Pick a black-eyed Susan,
Some daisies,
Sit holding them,
Remembering your sounds,
When your first movements
Allowed me to scream with the others,
To have them hug me,
And, for once, to take me as one of their own.
When your appearance made me, for a moment,
A typical teenager swooning at the sight of a rock star.
*
Roberta “Bobby” Santlofer (1943-2020) was a mother of sons, an avid reader, and a poet. A posthumous collection of her poetry is forthcoming.
*
This poem was previously published during my mother's lifetime; however, the publication source is not known at the time of this post.