The Inch Poem by Lauren Erimita

Debussy fills me in three-quarter time;
the trombone gliding
up, up and down down
groaning the melody
I know so well

I like to imagine
my neurons and transmitters
swaying like musical notes
or perhaps
pausing in aesthetic bliss

It must be said
that the music fills me
incompletely
Leaving behind an inch
thick of cerebrum

the sliver of brain that is our
consciousness,
the area that revels
in Debussy's waves

I exist in this space as do the arabesques
of our French composer.


-
Special thanks to Fred Babbin for all his help with restructuring this.