Exiles and Migrations

—For Fanny

Exiles and migrations—
the trunks in the basement,
gathering dust in the shadows.

And then there is
the cover story—
what was said instead,
the omissions themselves,
the missing pieces
of a puzzle
with no clear image.

The horizon is lost,
or folded into boxes
stored beneath the stairs—
that which no one
is able
or willing
to unpack.

Across the generations
even convictions
get lost
in a draughty,
hollow
pledge of silence.

My grandparents
crossed oceans,
arrived at Ellis Island
with children
and a willful hope
for the future—

but no name
for the ache
that followed.

Yet this is an old story

of lost origins—

as dragons, eagles, swans,

oxen, wolves, and horses.

Still,
my grandmother Selma
spoke in the tongue
of her heart:
Yiddish—

but somehow I hear
the deep,
deep growl
from the place
we do remember—
where everything is intact,
without words,
ready to howl.

—Lorena Wolfman (2020, 2025)