The tongue remembers all the death it has tasted. It teaches us the name and memory of things. The aquae of the womb’s ocean as it dries in the first gasp of air. The vitae coughing out so the lungs can start its invisible cycles of dying and renewing. The taunt of the nose denying forever the tongue’s right to taste the light of light, claiming the invisible for itself, the visible for the eyes and the mortal for the body’s flapping corpus. The sal of flesh as it tastes the lechum of breast. The tongue knows the Unami of vowels before the first words spoken and heard. The sweetness of the first thought before it dries in the sourness of memory. That the first honeyed almond greeting is refined from bitter goodbyes. That leaving home tastes like oranges. That love tastes like chocolate and the newborn like rice. The tongue knows from its time with the ocean that the smell of death usurps the silence of a mother’s caress, the waves of all her sobs and tears until the sweet salt is the last everything it only always knew.