At forty, I hired a vocal coach.
My husband had taken up
a new friend—he swore it was platonic,
her name unimportant.
Upfront, she warned me
her rate for adults
was higher than for children—
a grown-up's capacity for change
isn't great, throat muscles
less pliable, even though
they usually want it more.
This isn't a story
of overcoming
diaphragmatic disadvantages
of mature voices in training,
just its cost.
I had one lesson wherein
she informed me
the price of admission
for her attention to my voice—
to get near the neighborhood
of up to par—
was double the original estimate.
It came with a guarantee
of no promises.
She wasn't a magician, she said.
To make me passable
at karaoke bars
would be an extra ten a session.
It was cheap, actually, easy
quitting those lessons—
quitting my husband.
I never wanted to be a pop star,
only to feel a knowing in my bones
that someone could still hear me.
Categories:
diaphragmatic, perspective,
Form: Free verse
Thunder between my ears,
Reaching down nerve endings,
Like shocks on wires climb,
Piercing at my chest,
Clenched tight in a ball,
I've known deeper pain,
But it's striking nonetheless,
Diaphragmatic breathing,
Eyes sealed facing the sun,
I clasp hands at calm,
Palms catching the dawn,
And though I inhale the beauty,
Hold in as much as I can bear,
My lungs always falter,
Left with the stale humidity,
Staring down a closed door.
Categories:
diaphragmatic, symbolism,
Form: Free verse