The secret life of wrinkles

 

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

 

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)

I am the flame

 

I am the flickering flame

joyous

changing

flowing

washing through everything

at the center

the liquid flame

mysterious plasma

currents

dancing

creating

aliveness...

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)

Aquí

 

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)

Here

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)

Inaprensible

 

luz

portadora de calor

brazos del sol

mensajera de implosiones internas

sus senderos hacia el jardín son invisibles

sin embargo, su presencia da forma a

cada hoja pálida y naciente

cada flor exuberante

la carne turgente del nopal

la tierra erosionada

de un muro de adobe opaco

salpicado de caliche

cada cosa hecha visible desde adentro

por su firma de color

las frecuencias que ofrece

y las que se guarda para sí

luz que brilla por todas partes

baila de una forma a otra—

zigzag oscuro de ramas de pirul

contra el cielo,

curva de piedra,

abrazo del adobe,

sombras amorfas del mezquite,

pétalos de rosa en espiral,

un insecto que se bambolea,

nubes que se deslizan por encima.

los secretos de la tierra revelados en todas partes

por un misterio no pronunciado

zumbando

silenciosamente

en cada momento

soberano

luminoso

inaprensible.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, traducción 2025)

Inapprehensible

luz

conductora de la calidez

caricia del sol

mensajera de implosiones internas

sus senderos hacia el jardín son invisibles

pero su presencia modela el mundo

cada hoja pálida y naciente

cada flor exuberante

opulenta carne del nopal

la tierra erosionada

del muro de adobe

salpicado de caliche

cada cosa revelada desde adentro

por el color de su trazo

por las frecuencias que entrega

y las que guarda

la luz brilla en todas partes

brincando entre las formas—

zigzag oscuro de ramas de pirul

contra el cielo,

curva de piedra,

abrazo del adobe,

amorfas sombras del mezquite,

el torbellino de la rosa,

el bamboleo de un insecto,

nubes que se deslizan por arriba.

El fulgor desvela los secretos de la tierra

a través de un misterio sin nombre

zumbando

silente

dentro de cada instante

soberano

luminoso

inaprensible.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)

Adentrándote en todas partes

 

En la belleza

entra

al santuario interior

al corazón del abrazo

donde nacen las chispas
donde fluye la sangre
en camino a todas partes

este cuerpo luminoso pulsa
un ganglio vivo de luz

adentrando en la fragua del saber
sintonizándose con todo lo que existe

incluso lo invisible

en el plegado de ahora
presente en cada dirección

Entrando, entrando—
nutrido de ese misterio sin nombre,
te recoges hacia el centro

aún estallando en flor

en todas partes

desde el centro

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, translation 2025)

Entering everywhere

in beauty

enter

the inner sanctum

the center of embrace

where sparks are born
where blood flows
on its way to everywhere

this luminous body pulses
a living ganglion of light

entering the forge of knowing
drawing from all that exists

even the invisible 

in the enfolded now
in every direction

Entering, entering—
drawing from that nameless mystery,
folding inward to the center

even as you blossom 

everywhere

from the center

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)

Misterio

 

El corazón lleva un secreto en su centro
el secreto de plegarse para desplegarse
el secreto de adentrarse para expandirse

La resonancia hacia dentro
y la expansión que se abre

El misterio mueve el ritmo del corazón
y nos lleva a casa

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, traducción 2025)

Mystery

The heart carries a secret at its center

the secret of folding to unfold
the secret of entering to expand

An intrinsic mystery stirs
in the pulsing inward, the reaching outward

Mystery weaves the heart’s rhythm
and carries us home—

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)

🌧 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)