I’d rather be a hound dog than a friend of Elvis

 

I’d rather be a hound dog than a friend of Elvis

My bow-legged mother had rickets as a child. 
Rickets, she told me, caused the bandy legs. 
A long time ago I read a hateful biography of Elvis 
which said his mother Gladys had rickets 
because she was an ignorant hillbilly. 
What an asshole thing to say.

Rickets can be caused by exclusive breastfeeding, 
by lack of sunshine. My mother loved sunlight.
My grandma had ample bosom
where I remember laying my head. 
Don’t know if Gladys breast-fed Elvis 
or if my mom breast-fed me. Mom died 
when I was young, I never thought to ask. 

I had a leg deformity called tibial torsion. 
Elvis had a rocking pelvis. 
Is breast milk destiny?
Mom could dance like a champ because, 
she said, the legs. Nobody laughed at her. 
In the beginning people laughed at Elvis, 
how he danced, how he sang. 

I was nine years old in 1956, a shirtless shortstop 
when a stray beagle wandered onto the sandlot 
and lay down between my bare feet 
panting up at me like an old friend. 
He was mine for a month.
One day he wandered off, made me cry. 
Then Elvis sang You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog. 
Goddammit.  A beagle is something, ain’t nothing. 

Listen to your heart. Hear the echo 
of your mother’s heart, your grandmother, 
all the mothers straight from their bosoms 
to the bones of your legs. Believe them.
Believe the wisdom of dogs. Just don’t 
believe everybody, what they say, 
what they sing. Not even Elvis. 

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig
Thank you editors Hayley & Jessica

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