Three Pieces

Issue 1

by Samuel Samba

Jump to: At the Mention of Grief: All Queer ConfessPump ActionPostulation

At the Mention of Grief: All Queer Confess

Lust as corporal punishment, implies we kneel on each other for pleasure.
boy: a gadget I stomach on sighting my father watch me pull the least
non-binary stunt I’m capable of.

I— double-edged pronoun, perishable filth.
Pa tells me— ‘snithe every thumb that points towards your thigh’.
my knee, polished into amazement.

I arch my back with ripe grace, & fall into shape.
a rebuttal to the soft-meated claim, that:

a) ache is tenderized hardship.
b) thigh at rest is hot argument lying-in state.
c) all thighs in motion becomes dangerous physics.
the mechanical grease of skin, alarming Pa in all the right places.

I’d have him know queer is volatile:
both knee, riding one way into blood-soft bliss & wearing out.
autumn, ramming through effeminacy under the wingspan of zephyr’s lawful caressing,
bruising bedsheets of breeze in the smallest of moaned decibel.

I still wear the wind, this malodorous air trapped under my loin.
the weight of language— press to my lip. thighs, ripening a quiet noise.
how color spill against the bright body of word till it bleeds meaning,
empties itself into grammar— barefaced, as we rupture into sound & ampersand:

a roughening. the neat prank of my loin,
modeled after a calmness in the quiet heat.
dusk reminds me, I too am capable of luster.

a large chunk of me, sold to light. miniature leakage of flesh— fluorescent bright.
I’m ghosted by sweat, the way my skin torches at the sound of grief.
happiness is a hard-nut-to-crack.
I am munching my bliss— every bit of it.

I skip the raw detailed niceties of life,
teethe on a lusting, unabashed.
the peelable pronoun in the valley of my back:
a testament to how I love my gendering— bone-clean & slightly devoured.

this is how we stay edible,
unshelling our bodies till the magic burns out.

we all arrive at climax or nutting.
either way, a hard-nut-to-crack.

Pump Action

when we learned of his body dashed onto a doorframe,
the yeast of a wound bedazzled by light.
eyelids, caved in between—small as a skylark
knife-peeled & brine soaked in saltwater made sweat.

his impetuous, bloodstream: all that fuels Minnesota’s temper veining through,
as if hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

I opt-out of the binary & the boldness shivers dusk, how cold berates a child.
how a lightning stammers in the hands of a cop,
learning to quench his flame on an effeminate child.

Fifteen saw me chased by a pistol-mouth from a grown-up spot—guessed into green,
to mix with the wet clay & other soluble denominators of my kind.

Archimede’s Principle states: ‘a body immersed in water,
experiences an upthrust equal to the weight of the fluid displaced.’

& I wade without sink—pummeling my right arm.

say, a violence thrust upward, is the whole loin arriving headfirst.
& with this pump action, an object bullets through the wind:
a boy is firearm or skylark, with less than a way to tell which is what.

the cop don’t tell me apart from the wet clay,
& blunders his way through darkness.
I flatten into a punishment—enough to bear the world’s weight.

a boy is satellite stabbed onto a pie chart.
a planet lived on its own.
a boy is meteor, going extinct with each body that eats fire.


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.

Samuel Samba is an indigenous writer of poetry & other works of art. Samuel’s writing explores the interiority and tensions of queerness in a heteronormative culture in which they imagine a world of inclusivity. Samuel’s works have previously published in Australian Poetry Journal, Australian Access Poetry, Munster Literature & elsewhere. Samuel was a finalist in the National Poetry Contest at Under the Madness Magazine.