I knew a man who says he can taste words. Every evening he sticks his head in a bucket of water. He says guava doesn't taste like guava but like gummy little balls of glue. He says words taste like either day or night. The night tastes are hollow and empty as a fish's eye. He recites: global petunia macaroon space cadet and tastes runny egg yolk and the blue medicine you'd feed a baby doll. The day tastes are more pleasant but no less overwhelming: knees bomb mommie goddamn tastes syrupy cherry and crunchy too with a hint of rose petal. He taps his tongue on the roof of his mouth for precision and rinses with bottled water at regular intervals. He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a white handkerchief. I have secret dreams of words in a chocolate box, tasting them one by one -- a perfect first date activity, no talking involved. We will consume the entire box in one afternoon; we will go for a walk and avoid all street signs because, at this point, even STOP is too much to taste.
copyright © Gena Smith, 2002 |
