Say, Sun, Soup by Michael Stewart

Three days a week, David sat at Ms. Bowen’s kitchen table and repeated back, say, sun, soup, sip, sick, said, sail. When he did well, she rewarded him with a chocolate from the freezer, hard and tasteless. When David did not do well, Ms. Bowen asked, Where is your tongue? And David would shake his head and purse his lips. Ms. Bowen would ask again, with the calm, almost impatient tone of a museum docent, Where is your tongue? His tongue was short and narrow between his thin lips; Ms. Bowen took it between her fingers—they tasted of sweat and chalk—and pinched hard enough to leave a reminder. Continue, said Ms. Bowen. Soot, see, sad, said David.

*

In his dream, Ms. Bowen did not pinch his tongue but cut it off with large sewing scissors. Together, they watched it flop on the table. Ms. Bowen told him to pick it up and follow her.

They turned right into a small room with a sewing basket next to a reading chair and a letter desk. Ms. Bowen kept her collection in the top drawer. Open the drawer, David. 

The desk was old, and the drawer required finesse. Inside were dozens: one heart-shaped like a strawberry, another fat as a little frog, one so thin and long it curled. A huddle of plump tongues, still but quivering, like wild rabbits under a dog’s hungry gaze. Where does your tongue go, David?

*

That Wednesday, he sat at Ms. Bowen’s kitchen table and repeated back, smile, small, sweet, snow, spoon. She gave him a curt nod when he asked if he could use the restroom.

He went right. He was careful with the drawer; it did not make a sound. In less than a minute, the scissors were heavy in his hand and his pockets writhed.

Ms. Bowen’s bathroom was as pink as the belly of a whale: pink tile and towels and potpourri with pink flower petals, peppermint toothpaste, and rose-scented soap. His tongue felt warm and foreign between his fingers. He pulled it to its length. There was so much blood he choked. 

*

During the day, David enjoys his quiet and the strange enormity of his empty mouth. He cleans the dishes without being asked. He does well enough in his classes. During the day, David waits for the night, when he may slip from his bed and creep down the hallway to the restroom. 

He closes the door carefully before flipping the switch and fishing out his hard-won treasures. In this harsh light, they look dead. He selects a thin one—dry and cold—to warm in his mouth. 

His mother does not wake up and notice the thin line of light where the door does not quite fit the frame. The frightful possibilities do not draw her down the hallway and make her press her ear to the door. But if she did wake up and those possibilities did pull her, what strange things she would hear. What pretty voices.

One rolls its r’s. One thick in his mouth makes him mumble. One nimble. One soft. One lies so virtuosically. So many voices with not a lisp among them.

He rewards them with what he has secreted in his pockets. With each tongue, it is different: the bright burst of a grape, the dry sweet of cake crumbs, a sharp bite of lime. Slowly, the fur of a sage leaf, a caramel still warm from his pocket, the foreign delight of this tart, this bitter, this, this delicious.

Michael Stewart is the author of four books and teaches creative nonfiction at Brown University. michaelhughstewart.com

6 June 2025