Lynne Ellis

When my love for you was a body in the world

A viola is simply wood and glue,
it will decompose in dirt.

The morning after my mentor died
you drove me to the Columbia River.

It's all we could think to do.

With early light
pink on the strawbacked hills,

I sang short hymns
on the balcony of our road motel,

my mentor still
a body in the world.

You slept on,
unembarrassed to hear me sing alone.

A viola is not good at holding pitch.
That first measure, though—

that'll split the chest.
Popped and bloody,

wire abandoning in all directions.

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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.