Shadows emerge
as I stand at the edge of the
gaping well of amnesia
in the matrilineal landscape.
From the depths shadows and shapes stir —
it is a crocodile
drifting beneath the surface?
Smooth fangs on the tongue
of the refusal to name,
the absences we mourn
and the omissions we sealed below.
We carry grandmother’s story
heavily like a dead weight,
agreeing in silence to pretend
not to know the hush
around the nightmare she bore
in the pillars of her legs.
Yes, her legs were strong,
and so they held for a long time —
then it was up to us
to shake the terror from our bone,
where we had guarded it,
held it in our ears
as yet unable to be unrung,
lodged in the cochlear spiral
where the ethers might have danced
and nourished our soul —
yet our truth couldn’t be sung,
not until now.
Not a crocodile, but a dragon’s pulse
awakening what was numb —
unspoken —
inadmissible.
Now we receive the grace
to hear with our heart —
the coursing river of our blood
awakening what was numb —
unspoken —
inadmissible.
The rock has begun to crumble —
the citadels of survival —
built a stone at a time
by what was not said,
not heard,
not freed —
teeter and begin to fall,
pulled down by the same gravity
we always knew was under our feet —
and now we remember:
In the dragon’s heart,
the only rule is love —
fierce, undefended —
soft as breath —
rising off the tongue —
the spring wind beckoning
to the green leaves to burst forth —
ancient as our ancestors’ bones —
wild as the earth —
and finally —
ours to choose.
— Lorena Wolfman (2020, 2025)
