Mouthwork

I listened to the message I left on the line,

trying to hear if the vowels were mine.

I’ve spent five years pulling the roundness out,

starving the words of their regional clout.

But the girl at the counter asked where I was from,

and the back of my throat went suddenly numb.

The 'D' hits the teeth with a thud that is thick,

a tell-tale sign of a stubborn old trick.

You can sand down the edges and paint it all flat,

but the tongue is a muscle that remembers where it sat.

It’s a ghost in the mouth, a low, heavy sound

that tethers my feet to the old muddy ground.