When flowers bowed their heads for night and hell heaved from infants’ lungs,
finger pads pressed on beveled holes along a vulture’s bone.

Lips pursed around the v-shaped mouthpiece.
Chest drew in. Breath went out. Fingers fluttered.
Sacks on the backs of those returning lightened.

A leader scowled: This was the sound of a day wasted!
Women guarded the player: This was the sound of demons lulled.

Over the ridge, baskets filled with grapes and dates
for the one who could lift hearts, summon tears, and join souls with a song.

Stars lit the path to the village where a fire was stoked, mats laid ‘round,
and music danced in the air like bats.


Ingrid Anders

Ingrid Anders

Ingrid Anders is a freelance writer currently residing in Northern Virginia, formerly residing in China, California, Taiwan, Germany, and New Jersey. She writes novels, short stories, poetry, and travel articles and hosts two monthly writing programs at the Washington DC Public Library. Her most recent works have appeared in “Brilliant Flash Fiction” and “Faculty Abroad.”