Stephanie Yorke

Chemistry never rests. Something’s converted
each time, given time. I eroded

on the bench, under the organ pipes,
God’s own woofers and tweeters,

oxidizing lime tears,
sound’s empathetic breakdown.

Enter Miss Dennis, chiming: Mavis
check your posture. Straightening

my hymnal spine. Play
it open. Now stopped. Again,

stopped. Her fingering over mine:
a splint for weak music,

pacing the floor.
Now, from the top. Remember,

Jacob lost – despite his rock jaw
and herdsman’s fists –

his opponent had better wind.
Don’t slow down, she said.

The work’s like swimming,
or not drowning:

this stroke doesn’t count
without the next.