LockJaw

My voice  

joy, the feeling of liquid space and suspended time 

My childhood spent singing in trees 

My voice 

My mother says I should 

sing with others 

I am told that it will make me better 

It becomes clear that I am too loud (my voice, my hair, my clothes) 

I hide, narrowing myself into white noise and I feel pleased with my own ability to disappear 

“You should always wear solid colours 

cover your legs and your arms 

Nobody wants to see your knees like a crinkly face 

Looking at them while you sing” 

I worry 

That my arms were too bare 

“You know, if you talk like that 

You’re bound to get laryngitis” 

Then there is fear that seeps into my dreams 

I open my mouth and there is nothing 

Radio fuzzing 

White noise 

I become educated 

I dye the green out of my hair 

I practice Italian vowels 

I am given assignments 

I am still too loud, they remind me 

I am told that Bellini will solve my problems 

He does not 

I grow smaller 

I open my mouth to sing and it feels like my own throat is tightening 

I visit my teacher 

Who is never satisfied 

I am not liquid in her presence 

I am not joy 

There is a hand clenching inside my esophagus 

I spend $150 dollars a session to have a man with a leprechaun beard wiggle my larynx around 

It clicks, cartilage on cartilage, sickeningly loud 

I am only better for a few hours after I see him 

I visit him until I run out of money 

I tell no one 

“Lie on your back, arms at your sides. Relax your torso. Now, breathe normally” 

I don’t know how to breathe anymore 

My vision swims, my brain yells  

Intercostals 

the larynx 

the hyoid bone 

tongue tension 

noisy inhalation 

diaphragm 

formants 

I am not relaxed.  

I wake up on a quiet, sunny morning  

I can’t open my mouth 

My jaw stuck in place for three hours, crackling and aching 

I take a bath after bath  

Hoping it will release 

My stomach in knots 

Trying to get the NHS to give you a referral for a locked jaw is  

Like being Sisyphus 

I wait five months for a letter 

I avoid bread 

And other dense foods 

I get six acupuncture sessions from a dentist 

Who has never given acupuncture before 

I see physiotherapists and osteopaths 

I dream that my mouth will close forever 

I pay to go to Harley Street and a man with a tie covered in red peppers tells me cheerfully 

“You won’t get better. You either have to live with the pain or I can replace the disc for you artificially. It will only last 10 years and it will cost you £15,000” 

I keep it a secret 

I give a recital 

“Interesting programme choice 

We could have evaluated you better with more standard repertoire 

Your jaw moves to the right when you sing high notes 

There's a wobble in your vibrato 

Tension is clearly an issue” 

I audition 

and audition 

and audition 

and audition 

“Why haven’t you brought any Mozart?” 

I defend myself 

It is personal 

“Perhaps you need a music lesson” 

I am told 

I step away. 

I discover 

It doesn’t matter how much you love something 

The suspension of sound in space 

If it requires docile  

homogeneity  

And you aren’t 

docile 

or  

homogeneous 

I dye my hair green again 

My jaw cracks like a roman candle when I eat bread  

(I no longer avoid bread) 

I put away my arias 

I dive into music that fits together like a puzzle 

And I discover 

That I am good 

It takes me three years  

And some help 

To remember my own voice  

As it was 

Some days, if I’m patient 

it even feels like silk 

again 

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