She comes to his dorm room –
after talking awhile, they decide to make love.
As she takes off her shirt,
he goes to the stereo and changes the record.

Shankar drops from spindle to platter,
atop some psychedelic rock.
The needle bobbles into the groove.
The music begins –
distinctive keen of sitar,
slow sinuous harmonics,
vibratoed, arpeggioed strings.

She sits astride him
as he lies back;
his hands appreciate her breasts.
She moves across him,
like the unwinding muscle of music,
the snake of her skin
he caresses in time.

Mouths explore in counterpoint,
arms and legs begin the dance
as the tabla joins in –
a stretched percussive beat
that punctuates the cry of strings,
crescendo, accelerando,
snatched up by their bodies,
undulating, sweat breaking,
lips begin to part –

Then suddenly, they break off
in the middle of the fevered raga.
Something doesn’t quite connect.
They lie side by side, unsmiling,
while the music climaxes without them.

He still desires her, but he’s not the only one.
She still desires him, but he’s not the only one.
This is just the first of many
miscalculated nights,
when strings and skins
would collide and part.

10/08/2001

Posted on 10/08/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt