Butterfly Out of the Mists of Time

One flutters, one floats—

ghosts of desire

spiraling in the womb of time,

reaching beyond the veil

of imagining.

Embers—

echoes—

meeting in a zygote,

a seed of singing

that hums itself

into becoming.

In the inner world

a body splits

its own dark symmetry—

breaking open again

and again.

One—

becoming its own unraveling,

splitting not apart

but into a deeper multiplicity.

Memory made flesh,

rooted in marrow,

rippling in hips,

glinting of salt—

our gaze,

each gesture steeped

in the pigment

of inheritance.

We are palette,

pulse,

paradox carried by laughter,

painted with the hush

of a timeless symphony.

The dance

between wombs

births itself

like the breath

finding its way

home.

Mi casa es su casa...

and la suya, and the other,

and the one not yet born.

And the breeze

that lifts my arms

when I dance

es la brisa

de mil mariposas—

a thousand butterflies, 

four thousand wings

writing our name

on the veil of time.

—Lorena Wolfman (2020, 2025)