Only Human 1962 Poem by Terry Collett

Yochana played
the Schumann piece.

Her fingers
nimble and soft
ran over the keyboard
to a preplanned purpose.

Her mother and Benedict
sat on the sofa listening;
her father was out
in the garden weeding,
classical music bored him.

Yochana played
from memory,
the Schumann
was a piece of cake
(an expression
she'd got from Benedict) .

Her mind was elsewhere,
on last night
in Benedict's bed
(or the guest room bed
where he was) ,
on how she had crept
across the passageway
to his room
and entered his bed.

A little slower there,
her mother said,
this is Schumann's
sensitive work,
needs more gentleness.

Benedict looked on
at Yochana,
trying to ignore
her mother,
listened to the music,
eyed her waist,
narrow,
the hips,
the way she moved
her body as she played,
her bottom easing
side to side
in her playing.

Yochana slowed
down a fraction,
her fingers
(if fingers
have memory)
thought of the motion
of opening Benedict's
nightwear buttons,
the touching
of his piece.

This is a difficult part,
her mother said,
take it carefully,
Yochana,
do not rush.

Yochana slowed,
heard her mother's
voice behind her,
imagined Benedict
sitting there
watching her
in his silence,
his mind on
other matters
than the Schumann,
after all,
she mused
soft smiling,
we are only human.