From the Dragon’s Breath

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)