Lynne Ellis

The Dinosaur at the Bottom of Lake Tahoe

Trees turn to yellow heat, on the velvet
slope of a fault basin. Smoke-socked firemen,
mattocks in dirt. A chaos paintbrush
moving through its palette. Amid these photos
of loss, I'm sent tiny ads for new shoes.
Booze delivery apps. Undergarments
to compress my body into standard
shapes, blenders sent right to my doorstep
overnight. Some goods I own already.
At what point do we admit our sins?
The dinosaur at the bottom of Lake Tahoe
was real to me, awkward kid in 1990,
submerged in snowmelt, waiting for my cold-
numb skin to wake so I could start swimming.
There was a sand bar 100 yards out—
I'd freestyle fast until my fingertips hit
something soft-solid and slipping (terrifying),
then belly-bump the lake floor sand and stand,
ankle-deep in alpine liquid, like some girl prophet,
as my skin sparkled and flamed, bright
in sudden summer air, riding the shadow thing
I knew could only destroy us.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Lynne Ellis writes in pen. Her words appear or are forthcoming in Poetry Northwest, Sugar House Review, WA 129 and elsewhere. She was awarded the 2021 Perkoff Prize in poetry by the Missouri Review. Her book—In these failing times I can forget (Papeachu Press)—considers the human cost of rapid economic growth in a prosperous American city.