Record Keeping, by Lila Schlissel

I think that if you 

took my brain apart you’d find 

a gold mine of music notes 

in my perirhinal cortex, 

spilling out from the flesh like 

coins 

 

I can taste songs like memories, 

feel them like years and summers 

and seasons, smell the soap 

I had used to clean my hands and the 

clothes I had worn in the car. 

 

My chest aches when I remember the 

tree that holds me, roots stuck fast 

in my heart, my brain, my being, 

that defies my self-isolation with deliberacy

 

That keeps a plethora of records in my 

subconscious and makes my  heart hurt 

when I remember that I love.