the tongue- knows only- sixty breaths before it lives, before it dies

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.