Two Violins

One was fire red,

Hand carved and new—

The local maker pried the wood

From a torn-down church’s pew,

The Devil’s instrument

Wrenched from the house of God.

It answered merrily and clear

Though my fingering was flawed;

Bright and sharp as a young wine,

They said, but it would mellow,

And that I would grow into it.

The other one was yellow

And nicked down at the chin,

A varnish of Baltic amber,

A one-piece back of tiger maple

And a low, dark timbre.

A century old, they said,

Its sound will never change.

Rich and deep on G and D,

Thin on the upper range,

And how it came from the Old World

Was anybody’s guess—

Light as an exile’s suitcase,

A belly of emptiness:

That was the one I chose

(Not the one of flame)

And teachers would turn in their practiced hands

To see whence the sad notes came.