🌧 Rain in the Marrow

there is a rain that falls
somewhere
there is a rain in the marrow
between every breath

since before my bones spiraled into being
since before my eyes sparkled with the Milky Way
since before my own mother dwelt in her mother’s salty waters

an ancient downpour falls
since before my grandmother began holding her breath
a rain that keeps falling
vaster than the sky of a lifetime

and yet the birds fly against the wind
guided by the wisdom that beats beneath their wings
they dive with joy, crossing currents of air
far greater than themselves
they paint new seas
and give birth to new lands

they murmur through time
shaping themselves at dawn
and unraveling at dusk
only to take shape again and again

an ancient rain falls
older than the first dew
on the agaves at dawn
and yet each drop spreads
the scent of jasmine
across the damp Earth,
where everything is born again.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, translation 2025)

🌧 Lluvia en la médula

hay una lluvia que cae

en algún lugar

hay una lluvia en la médula

entre cada respiración

desde antes de que mis huesos emergieran del espiral

desde antes de que mis ojos reflejaran la vía láctea

desde antes de que mi madre habitara el océano de su madre

cae un aguacero antiguo

desde antes de que mi abuela empezara a contener la respiración

persiste una lluvia que cae

más vasta que el cielo de una vida

y sin embargo las aves vuelan contra el viento

guiadas por la sabiduría que late bajo sus alas

se zambullen con alegría, cruzan las corrientes de aire

mucho mayores que ellas

pintan nuevos mares

dan a luz nuevas tierras

murmuran a través del tiempo

haciéndose al alba 

y deshaciéndose en atardecer

para hacerse una y otra vez

cae una lluvia antigua

más antigua que el primer rocío

en los agaves al amanecer

y sin embargo cada gota difunde

el aroma del jazmín

sobre la Tierra húmeda,

donde todo vuelve a nacer.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)

The Scent of Salt

The scent of salt
caresses the curve of the land—
far from the sea,
on a lifted plateau,
here where the continent
reaches down like a fleshy thigh
above calf and foot
and toes that tickle
the northern edge of South America.

The salty wind
travels across land and millennia,
arriving here—
2315 meters above the sea.

As I walk, I see the ocean
through contours of layered memory
across the landscape.
And in the sky,
a conch shell floats,
perfect, then dissolving
into a wind-whipped wisp.

A swordfish approaches
a whale with tail upturned.

A swimmer floats on his back,
right arm extended,
pushing back mountains,
kicking feet
stirring up the heavens.

The seductive scent of salt
rides each gust
while the earth's lofty waters
darken into night.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)

Coro crepuscular

El crepúsculo desciende
subo por el viejo camino
y al doblar una curva
el valle se abre—
ahí abajo, el pueblo titila
como un campo de estrellas

Un bramido bajo
se desliza por la penumbra creciente
me acerco a la cañada—
pensando que tal vez
era un Corriente extraviado
llamando a su manada

El bramido se repite
y luego otra voz más profunda lo acompaña
con la mirada recorro
el cordón del cerro
hasta ver sus siluetas—
una hilera de rumiantes

Un coro de bramidos bajos
uno, luego otro y otro más
mientras uno se apaga otro comienza
un atento coro de saludos—
de mis amigos las vacas

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, Traducción 2025)

Twilight Chorus

twilight gathers as I walk
the winding road above the valley
I round a bend
and there below
like a field of stars
the pueblo begins to sparkle

a low bellow drifts
through the deepening darkness
I approach the ravine
thinking perhaps a lone Corriente
is calling for his herd

the bellow comes again—
and then another, deeper voice
I scan the ridgeline
until I see their silhouettes:
a line of ruminants

low bellows rise—
one, then another,
as one fades, another begins
a deliberate chorus of greeting
my friends, the cows —
shadows folding into night,
voices weaving an embrace —
have come to know me well.

— Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025) 

Seven Years Ago

seven years ago—

the moonless nights were so deep and dark

the adobe walls of my garden dissolved

into untamed portals of awe

beyond the edge of reason

where the imagination takes hold

seven years ago—

the sky’s milky spine tingled still

with its glorious glow

illuminating the upper heavens

with something well beyond sparkle

though even now we breathe a little deeper

at the revelation of the stars

just after sunset

seven years ago—

the cry of the llorona

echoed along the creek bed

while roaming coyotes howled

from the town’s outside of town

on certain nights of the year

across the deeper hills

townspeople still whispered of the orbs

bouncing down the slopes

of cerro del águila and cerro del saus—

these were witches, they said

and ancestral flames

were seen burning brightly after twilight

rising from the earth

seven years ago—

it was known you might be greeted

by a phantom on the road

at the deadly curve heading out of town

she was known to climb into taxis

only to have vanished upon arrival

one misty morning, when I first came to town

an old woman I never saw again said:

they say this is a pueblo fantasma,

but there are no ghosts here—

the only ghosts on these streets

are outsiders

seven years ago—

you entered the wilds one step beyond town

you could feel the untouched

alien consciousness of—

rabbits, field mice, snakes, scorpions

nopales, palmas, mezquites—

and it was as though

there was something else

lingering just out of sight

sometimes watching

to venture out into the darkness

was to journey into the unknown

seven years ago—

you might wake to the tinkling of bells

as the sheep were herded through town

headed to pasture

and you might hear a strange and sweet cry—

the bleating of goats,

like the gentle, plaintive cooing of an infant,

hushing you to sleep

in seven years—

the noise of traffic and the white glare of street lamps

have crowded out the mystery

elbowed away the refuge of the unseen

sent la llorona packing

overtaken the imagination

and forced the coyotes, rabbits, and alicantes

into the precarious, arid hinterlands

but electric lights cannot blot out

the shadow from the human soul.

And though dreams may flee into the hillside,

there, they hold vigil.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)