The Crooked Vowel

They said, 'You talk like you're from somewhere else.'

And I was. But I sanded it down, myself.

Like a rough plank, planed smooth for display.

The 'o's too wide, the 'a's that stray

too far south. Or east. I don't know where.

I heard my own voice, once, on tape.

An answering machine. A funny shape

my mouth used to make, loose and slow.

Now, I clip my words. Watch them go.

Precise. Unremarkable.

It's a performance, this careful tongue.

Like an old coat, once worn, now hung

in the back of a closet. Not quite forgotten.

But not me, either. This sterile sound.

Just me, trying to blend in with the ground.