Vigil

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 at night 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)