Loaner Tongue

I played the memo back and didn't know the man

speaking with such clipped, careful precision.

I’ve ironed out the way my sentences ran,

a quiet, subconscious decision

to be understood by the girl on the line.

My tongue hits the back of my teeth

on a word like 'water', making it fine,

burying the flat 'a' underneath.

It’s a betrayal of the kitchen table,

a sanding down of the rough, honest wood.

I’m becoming a person who is finally able

to say nothing, but say it quite good.