from "Bone Diary" • Isabel Sobral Campos

Bone Diary

[“Fantasy:” from Greek “a making visible”]


In the fractured dark

the sacrilege of

thighs          A fear of


my smell    The blood

flowing down


the groin        It touches

the left and right inner thigh

rouge on leg cheek, a paltry wound

a rub          all animals can see now


My reliquary flows deep                        

and reeks of daubed dirt


“I am not my blood”

“I am not an estranged maternal gift”



all mine shaped

as rainfall inside cell:

a mute rune


Fed it to the pigs

and porcupines

-by Isabel Sobral Campos, from Your Person Doesn't Belong to You