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
