The Violin
The violin was shaped
with pride and skill
by her Maker
Not the most expensive
wood nor as much varnish
as her sisters, but her shape
was practical and her strings
designed for glorious music
So she wondered, day after day
as every other instrument
in the shop was chosen
Bright, shiny trumpets
slender clarinets
wide bass drums
all found their mates
no one picked up the violin
“Violins are difficult”
On rare occasions
when a stringed instrument
was called for, a flashier model
was always chosen
Dust gathered on the lonely violin
Until one day the Customer came in
He’d been through several instruments
but decided this time
a violin would do nicely
“That one, behind the counter”
The violin’s strings
trembled as he held her
beneath his chin
cradled her bow
between his fingers
The sound that came forth
was far from beautiful
She was out of tune
from years of neglect
She tried so hard
to please the Customer
He rewarded her
with a smile
paid the Man behind the counter
“For a trial run”
Every day the violin
tried her best
every day she sounded better
The music that poured
from her strings began
to sound like symphonies
Until the day the Customer
closed her lid
Through the thick case
she heard the bell
of the shop door ring
He laid her on the counter
“I don’t think violins are for me”
Hands that Have Always Held Me
Father, where is the lamb?
The servants say you always bring a lamb
bleating and crying
spotless and pure
following guileless in your wake.
It cannot recognise the blood-stained knife at your hip
sharp enough to slice bone and sinew
with a single touch.
It doesn’t know the sticks
piled on the servant’s back that snap and creak
with every upward step.
They didn’t say this mountain would be so steep, Father.
Did the lambs stumble too?
The ones that have come before?
Father, where is the lamb?
Is it waiting at the top?
The Lord will provide, you say
but now I see no lamb
only the trembling of your hands
strong hands that have always held me.
Did the lambs feel the cold mountain wind
through their tight, curly fleece?
Did they realise their inevitable end?
The kindling, the knife, Father, now I know.
Kristina Heflin is an Arizona State University English major, based in Northern California. She has served on the editorial board of the literary journal Flumes and is Activities Coordinator for the Yuba College Literary Arts Club. She has been published in the literary journals Flumes, Canyon Voices, and Diverse Minds, the websites 2Elizabeths and the write launch, as well as the anthology The Beckoning. Future publications include Canyon Voices and the Same. When she’s not writing or tutoring English at Yuba College, she enjoys horseback riding and Marvel comics.