Singing Lesson

Not until my second singing lesson
did I admit that I had been strangled
three times. I said it as a joke
though it was true.

I may have fainted or pretended to.
It was in the martyr’s year and by
the man who said he loved me.
That’s why I can’t sing, I said.

I am squeamish when anyone
gets close to my neck — anyone,
the craft fair jeweler, lovers.
Even just telling her, this woman

who drew me the lungs and diaphragm
who loves Seussical more than any other
musical, who wears sunglasses during
our lesson because her eyes hurt,

even telling her, with an electric piano
between us, and a beer bottle-size speaker,
and the music stand that I held like a spear,
even then, my throat contracted like a sinkhole,

and I had trouble swallowing.
We spent the rest of the hour
breathing together, a little silent
at first. I saw how scared she was.

Then she whispered, no one is here
trying to strangle you, no one
is strangling you. You can breathe here.
My brain buzzed champagne.
Then she hugged me.

*

Daniela Buccilli’s poetry can be found in The Pedestal, Prime Number Magazine, Broad Ripple Review, Quarter After Five, Paterson Literary Review, and Cimarron Review. Her chapbook is What it Takes to Carry, and her co-edited poetry anthology is Show Us Your Papers (both from Main Street Rag). She has writing degrees from University of Pittsburgh and Carlow University. She taught in a public high school and served as her union’s secretary. Currently she is the poetry editor at Northern Appalachia Review and workshops with the Madwomen in the Attic in Pittsburgh.