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  • Samuel Samba 
  • 2 min read

To merit a crisis, we stomach a foreign object,
tide our tongue with grace.
my ribs, lodged into a vessel.
the slow river of my vomit, kayaking.

my tutor says: girls who house girls in their mouth permutates.
the skin— directly proportional to a constant miracle.

girlhood is maths worn sideways.
we’re conjuring a heated assumption,
& I take the space between your legs for
an accurate premise.

here, I debunk my father in past tense,
unnaming the ashes.
I’ve lived his name to a grudge.

I intend pinning you down, purposeful as a bullet.
I intend a lettering:
our loins ruptured into ampersand— the way your head meets my thighs in reverse.

we put the warmth to use.
summer, leaking from our sunned flesh.
this season names you after a theorem alive, but for awhile.
we catch ourselves trailing its bullets to a logical surrender.

mid-solstice, I dug up our passports.
a sweatless migration unsettling the soil.

I Identify as a gash somewhere on the face siphoning your labia region,
to spill a poison that writes our loins in third person pronoun.

your lips on mine reminds me: each wound begins with an opening.
each crisis begins with a mouth.

in the dark, I offer myself as a vista for how women should be perceived.
the gap between a thigh & a thigh is an object going same way into each lively hole.
the ricochet, barking our worths.

your mouth meeting mine is how I learn to spark a flame.
I give off ashes as an aftertaste.
trail how sweat by way of heat landlocks your loin,
rioting to prove our bodies first principle.

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