What chord did she pluck in my soul
that girl with the golden necklace
& ivory breasts
whose body ignited the river:
she who rose like the moon
from her bathing &
brushed back the ebony hair
that fell to her waist
& walked off
into the twilight dark—
O my soul,
what chord did she pluck
that I am still trembling.
after Chandidas
— Steve Kowit
Gorgeous.
What is it about me that poems about desire and the power of it will pluck a chord in me that go on reverberating?