Isn’t it Just Cud?
lately, syllables crumble, like the gumweed
split over a nail’s flange, powder
until crushed from the stem’s hollow—
bitter on a tongue. crunched. then
gum molarstuck. the particulate
flakes of stem needling & spit out—
i don’t have language for this;
the spitting out of sharp, the chewing
later on a piece of grass—fescue bluegreen
—like a boy taught me as we lay
between a stock trough’s metal walls,
feet touching through boots.
i’m chewing consonants, dropping
cud in globules of spit groundward.
give me something to taste.
i’m bordered. in my own newness.
making myself letter. if i struck myself
plantlike, would you listen?
chew me my boots from my own feet—
it’s said everything needs to be tender
before sewn.
Tovah Strong grew up in New Mexico. They hold a BFA in creative writing from the Institute of American Indian Arts, where they were the 2021 recipient of the Glascock Intercollegiate Poetry Prize, and an MFA from Randolph College. Her poetry has appeared in Terrain.org, Chapter House Journal, and elsewhere.