silence
can I enter
it?
fleeting and eternal
designated in the pause
only present really in the absence of a signifier
though substantive, immaterial
was it
ever it
or will
or could it be?
that which is wordless
can one many or infinity
be different?
or is there only one
infinite one
—Lorena
we pray for the cold
like we pray for the rain
for the next breath
for a sign
that even in the paroxysms
of change
life continues
—Lorena
the only place I know
to experience divine wisdom
is in this earth’s body
where I live
with blood bone breath
oxygen carbon hydrogen…
mitochondria humming
in an eternal dance
part of a larger serpentine
winged being…
arising from an unnamed
primoridal ocean
coming ashore rhythmically
again and again
with each heartbeat
—Lorena
falling
I am falling
as you may be falling too
falling
into the earth
into realms of rest and dreams and soul
the realm of love
each one of us can be falling
falling into love
into love's embrace
as we stand in her grace
she flows down our arms
down our legs
past our knees
into the the earth
all demons who have spoken
in our minds
wherever they came from
who have spoken for too long
fall away...
—Lorena Wolfman
el cardón venenoso de largas espinas
se ve glorioso en el calor de la tarde
sus capullos brotándose
tinte cochinillo fucsia mexicana
delicados como las alas de una mariposa desplegándose
para encontrarse con el viento
el instinto de emprender vuelo
solo apenas disfrazado
por sus astilladas espinas de hueso
a punto de matar
la mayor parte del tiempo parece que está en la agonía
de una muerte lenta
sus brazos abiertos la cruz de la angustia que carga
pero ahora resurgido se encuentra transfigurado
henchida su carne verde turgente
anhelo de reventarse
en canción de flor y transparencia
y aún sus espinas se abren
un espectáculo de santo resplandeciente
anunciando su luminosa amenaza
brillando a la luz del sol
a punto...
—Lorena Wolfman
the long spined poisonous cardon
looks glorious in the afternoon heat
her buds pressing themselves open into flower
mexican fucshia cochinil dye
delicate as butterfly wings unfolding
to meet the wind
the instinct to take flight
disguised only barely
by her bone slivered quills
poised to pierce flesh
most of the time she looks like she is in the throes
of a slow death
her outspread arms
the cross of the agony she bears
but now arisen
she stands transfigured
having grown into her turgid green flesh
longing to burst
into the song of blossom and translucency
and still her spines flay open
in a show of saintly radiance
announcing their luminous threat
shining in the sunlight
poised…
—Lorena Wolfman
