First draft:

Avox

The tongue is a ghost disturbing my wake
It is a lie
to call it Mother. 

Would you have me pull it out by the roots
beneath muscle and sinew
before memory of pain?
Or spool it up, silent, in contortions of 
guilt, 
bitter, trembling, burnt. 

It is secret and secretive
tasting only itself
till that too disappears. 
An invisible coating that curdles every flavor. 

Everything it tastes is second-hand
forgotten
half thrown out in disgust, 
and retrieved always a moment 
too late, the bitterness 
of un-remembrance.