The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.

—A Midsummer’s Night Dream

My third tongue argues with my sixth,
as is their wont.  Tongue Three complains
the corn tortilla’s stale, but Six
insists the hint of lime makes up
for the desiccated rubber edge.
The clock’s hands help themselves to seconds,
stuff its face with minutes, words.

Tongue Five has long resigned from speech.
Relic Tongue Four withdraws to lie
curled high and silent near our roof.
Among the cinnamon and grit
(the dregs of Mexican chocolate
from sugared cakes of cocoa nibs),
it searches for its misplaced runes.

Not one of them recalls words lost
to the greedy clock—certainly not
the long-dead tongues: those English sibs
(Middle, Old) died with Latin.  Ghosts!
Their obituaries, clipped and filed,
wait for upstart French to join them—
when? à huis clos? as that limp tongue

once knew to say?  Tongue Six retains
sufficient recall to confess
it’s muy mal (and craves a taste
of Acapulco’s famed pozole).
Satis!” cries Two.  “Enough!” huffs One,
muscling in and pressing hard
to grant its n strong gnarl and thrunn.

How its long fricative can turn
mouths red as sunset’s final vowel!
And thus the tongues devour their hours,
stored in the cupboard of regrets
beside the baking soda box—
dusty, slump-shouldered, contents hard
from unemployment, like my tongues.

I’m judged neglectful of my tics
and tocks—forgetful of their taste
when rolled with care around the mouth.
If glutton clocks, like their rival bells,
had tongues, they might have tolled and told
how stale’s the deckled calling card
time leaves each time it finds us out.