The Stranger's Tongue

The small black circle

spits it out. My own words

“Don’t forget the dry cleaning”

in this pinched, slightly

nasal thing, talking so fast

it trips over itself.

It’s me, supposedly.

My breath is in it,

the particular hitch

before a long word.

But the pitch, the hurried

rush of it, belongs

to someone I haven't met.

A stranger who lives inside

my throat, waiting for

the phone to record,

to tell me I don't

even know the sound

of my own self.

The tinny voice cuts off.

Just static, then the dial tone.