from "Bone Diary"

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

                                          me

My reliquary flows deep                        

and reeks of daubed dirt

 

“I am not my blood”

“I am not an estranged maternal gift”

 

Boyhood

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