I have my mother’s tongue. Not metaphorically. Not in a poetic, intergenerational trauma kind of way. I mean quite literally. It used to be in her mouth, and now it’s in mine. If you’re normal—that is, if you don’t have your dead mother’s tongue in your mouth—you’re probably thinking, Okay sparko. You’re probably going Lalala, Sally sells seashells by the seashore. Doing somersaults or making troughs with your tongue that is no one else’s. Touching noses then screaming, Ha! How’d you like the taste of that! Well, let me tell you. All I know is one day I woke up unable to roll my R’s. Or French my boyfriend. (I opened my mouth but the tongue just lolled, already turned in for the night.) To say that the tongue and I are reluctant inmates would be an understatement. For starters, the tongue is a little too long. It rests against my bottom teeth like a pool cue, ready to strike. Sometimes it clicks against the roof of my mouth when I’m nervous. Not my nerves. Her’s. Sometimes it makes me say things in a way I don’t mean. Sayonara, amigo! Would you like cheese with your apple? Instead of I love you, I now say, You eat too much junk food. And when I laugh, it’s accompanied by a cough. I have never met anyone who laughed like that apart from my mother. And now me, I guess. Even when I’m silent, even when I refuse to speak one word just to spite it, I can still feel the tongue’s stoic presence inside of me, keeping vigil throughout the night like a Shaolin monk—all sinew and spit. But you can’t go on biting your tongue forever. Trust me, I’ve tried. It was years before I finally stopped fighting it. Let it march to the beat of its own little drum. It has taken a while, longer than both of us would care to admit, but I’m slowly grasping what it likes (curse words, envelopes, potato chips with ridges) and what it doesn’t (other people’s saliva, cilantro, empty apologies). It’s also partial to the word anemone, the taste of menthol cigarettes—really, Mom? I have learned how to listen to it, defer to it. Asking myself, What would the tongue say? Other people have begun to notice the change as well. My coworkers say I sound different. Less “No worries if not,” and more “This isn’t a hotel.” I even started kissing again. The tongue prefers girls with tongues like molten chocolate cakes, like open palms. When we finally pulled away, she said, Wow, and I said, I know. In return, I drink a lot of tea. I used to hate tea, but the tongue likes the warmth. On Thursdays, we can be seen performing spoken word together at the open mic. We are getting really good at enunciating. Saying things like, Why don’t you call anymore? and Honey, turn off the lights. It’s time for bed.