todavía extrañamos
nuestra cola de cuando éramos sirenas
una constelación buceando
en el vientre del universo
cuando todavía soñamos
con los destellos
con los cuales las hadas
nos salpicaban la cara
mientras dormíamos
antes de nacer
cuando todavía nos dedicabamos
a parpadear entre las estrellas—
ahora, en la tierra
todavía recordamos
lo que es nube
lo que es estrella
lo que es descansar
descansar en el regazo
grávido e ingrávido del universo
—Lorena Wolfman
Edahí and I walk hand in hand after a chance meeting on the sidewalk,
His eyes are brimming with uncontained excitement
his cousin, Lian, skips along behind after five years in the United States,
is so excited to be home discovering her pueblo mágico
not a cloud in the sky just inscrutable depth
everything drenched in a deluge of wonder
tonight the streets shine just for her
here and there the Milky Way peaks through
from beyond the threadbare veil of electric light
She asks if I speak English
and is delighted there is someone else who shares her code.
In the Parroquia San Pedro de los Pozos
aflame with the light centuries collected
reflecting from gold leaf and silver
And there la Virgen del Carmen, la Fátima, San Pedro himself
And of course, el Cristo, el señor de los trabajos at the center
In this nave faith is everything
A sea of of people from the pueblo
listens to Bach on Violin
listening to Carlos Gardel
and to duet of bésame mucho in an arrangement made for the evening
Most of the women wear their hair down
Dark rivers of fathomless mystery
Even those with their tied back
carry the ancestral shroud of their ancestral origin
glowing inwardly
Salud with her two handsome sons on either side
listens attentively then her eyelids drop
a long day but she is here
Beside me Edahí plays
—the grandson of Eduardo the deceased artist
who was my friend
coconspirator in finding wonder—
but finally says he is bored...
his grandmother, Lian and Edahí trickle
out through the pews before the concert has ended.
Closer to the front Salud— who used to make tortillas on a woodburning comal,
and now sells the plants she cultivates—sits up tall in the space between her sons.
The Covarrubias are all present.
Those who are absent but indelibly inked on the parchment of our souls are also here
carried in on the vibrant strings of violins.
—Lorena Wolfman (Agosto 2025)
Just as all things
wrinkles have a secret life.
They multiply in drawers,
in closets,
on bedsheets,
on faces,
and dry leaves—
across time.
Wrinkles live in old letters,
creased by longing—
in the folds of maps
where the journey changed direction.
Even the surface of a pond wrinkles
when the wind writes its name.
They soften with movement,
with sunlight, with joy,
with the warmth of a caress,
guiding them onto a single plane—
on linen they yield
to the searing breath
of an iron sighing steam.
On water, they smooth
like glass when the wind calms.
Wrinkles contract and release
like a heart beating,
like a bellows fanning flames,
like hands clasping and letting go.
Wrinkles disappear and reappear,
and sometimes
come to stay
in the thoughtful furrow of your brow—
or they deepen like moonbeams
that have traced the vectors of light
twinkling in your eyes
again and again.
Where there is life
there are wrinkles—
on faces, on linens,
on the skin of the earth,
and on water,
moving of their own volition
in a dance
with time, movement, wind,
light, heat, and moisture...
—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2015)
Soy la llama parpadeante
gozosa
cambiante
fluyente
limpiando todo
en lo profundo
llama líquida
plasma misterioso
olas
danzando
creando
vitalidad...
—Lorena Wolfman (2021, traducción 2025)
joyous
changing
flowing
washing through everything
at the center
the liquid flame
mysterious plasma
currents
dancing
creating
aliveness...
—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)
Me he deslizado
al ahora sin límites—
estando aquí, no en otro lugar—
por la ventana abierta veo
buganvilias color fucsia,
pared de adobe,
luz reflejada al cielo
desde el envés argénteo
de las hojas del tepozán.
Salgo de la alcoba
al resplandor que dibuja en el jardín
gruesas pencas de nopal,
el encaje verde pálido del mezquite.
Piso descalza,
los pies en la tierra,
cada paso una siembra silente—
aquí,
y aquí...
Estoy embelesada—
cautiva, hendida más allá del tiempo y el lugar.
Me he vuelto hermana
de todas las mujeres que se detienen—
y sin querer se han fundido al todo.
Así entrando en tierra de santos,
y de quienes caminan en la orilla
más allá del pensamiento,
desprendiéndose de todos los nombres
como hojas que caen al espacio.
Sostengo mi corazón
oscilando lentamente,
la tierra subiendo por la planta de los pies.
Tierra lozana que se mece,
tierra lozana que se mece—
hacia la luz oculta,
siempre presente.
Sobre el muro de adobe,
una eternidad de flores
se abre en silencio—
cada pétalo, una galaxia,
presenciada por el mismo espacio.
No había visto
tan sencillo,
tan hondo,
desde que era niña.
No hay a dónde ir.
Las capas que velaban el encuentro
han caído.
Estoy
en un lugar tan íntimo,
exquisito, preciso—
donde todo respira
más allá de todo.
Aquí.
—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)
I have fallen
into the boundless now—
being here, not elsewhere—
gazing out an open window:
fuchsia-colored bougainvillea,
adobe wall,
light reflecting heavenward
from the silver underside of tepozán leaves.
I enter the sunlight’s luster
spreading across the garden,
revealing thick nopal paddles,
the pale green lace of mesquite,
treading barefoot,
soles connecting with the earth’s contour,
each step a quiet planting—
here.
I am transfixed—
overtaken, pierced beyond time and place.
I have become sister
to all women who have paused—
only to enter everything.
Entering the land of saints,
and those who walked
on the edge beyond thought,
shedding all names
like leaves falling into emptiness.
I hold my heart
as I rock side to side,
ground entering the soles of my feet.
Soft earth and stillness rocking,
soft earth and stillness rocking—
into the hidden light,
always present.
Upon the adobe wall,
an eternity of blooms
unfolding quietly—
each petal a galaxy,
beheld by space itself.
I have not seen
so simply,
so deeply,
since I was a child.
There is no place to go.
The layers to arrive
have fallen away.
I am here
in a place so intimate,
so exquisite, precise—
where all things breathe
beyond all things.
Here.
—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)
