The Other Mouth

The mechanic's machine

had picked up my message.

The grinding sound, I'd said,

was coming from the front left wheel.

And then it played me back.

My own voice, but not mine.

A thin, reedy thing,

a tightened wire,

pitched higher than I recall.

A small, complaining whine.

The intake of breath,

a sudden catch

before the words began,

like a bird caught in a snatch

of air, a small, scared sound.

This other mouth,

this stranger

with my thoughts,

making a fuss

about the car's trust,

a foreign tone,

not my own, not quite.