Originally

She asked where I was from originally

and I gave the answer I always give —

the city, the state, said it the way I've learned to say it,

clean and quick, like a fact, like a door

that closes behind you.

She nodded and the meeting moved on.

I sat there with my camera off after

and said it again out loud, the way

my mother says it.

Which is different.

Which is softer on one end

and closes somewhere else in the back of the throat.

I'd been on the phone with her an hour before the call.

I didn't notice the shift happening,

just noticed the shift back — the voice

settling like sediment into the shape of itself.

My mouth was already open when she asked.

The choice happened in the half-second between

her question and my answer,

somewhere between the jaw and the chest.

I gave the right answer. The smooth one.

I've been giving it for years.

I don't know why my stomach felt the way it did

for the rest of the afternoon.