Here the wind

Here the wind

the fog nestling in the hills at night

here away from the noise

of neurotic acceleration

here stars

here cool damp night

cold face

behind my eyelids

in the field of dreaming

deep stained flashes of color appear

richer deeper more intense

that the color of the outer world

and waking

somewhere in the night crickets and frogs harmonize their songs

meanwhile I have come back to the page

the fountain pen

blue ink scrawling in waves

across the page

the words bleed into the page

soothing my grieving heart

And the wind comes up

lifting the pages of my journal

a flapping song

that could be bird wings

lifting into the air

as the words come off the metal

a pointed wet geometry

full of conductive fluid water

not present in the electro magnetic frequencies 

emerging from the hard black plastic of the keyboard...

My heart comes back

taking up space

releasing into the chest cavity of flesh and bone

the curtains undulate with the wind

that delights my skin shivering like a fowl

I arrive here on the page

after reading of ouranos

who stuffed his and Gaia's children 

back into the depths of the earth

afraid of the power of their creation 

to protect herself gaia engaged the aid of Saturn

cleaving sky from her breast

cleaving eternal from temporal

space from earth

meanwhile hearing the hum of my voice

I can breath again

as I do when I dance across the land

sure footed arms flying discovering the shape of the aire

around me the shape of the sky I travel through

finding the air in my lungs bouyied up by wing bones

and clavicles embracing the rhythm...

—Lorena 

Luna negra

En un cerro

en este pleno cielo vacío

no hay nada visible

que guíe el ritmo de la marea

ni la seguridad del sol

solo el brillo de los puntos de luz

un campo de estrellas sin nombre

que dibujan geometrías intuidas

el camino al hogar.

Aquí una orientación silenciosa emerge

en la oscuridad 

donde te encuentras

solo a través de la ausencia

mientras esperas la llegada

de lo desconocido.

Caminas entendiendo

que no es esto o aquello

pero algo más allá de tus manos

inasible.

Y te caes al siguiente paso

fuera del mapa

y aterrizando en la tierra.

—Lorena Wolfman, 2026. 

Dark moon

On a hill

in this full empty sky

no thing is visible

holding the rhythm of the tides

nor the certainty of the sun

only glimmering points of light

a star field without single name

draws intuited geometries

the way home.

Here a silent orientation arises

in the dark

where you find yourself

only through absence

as you await the arrival 

of the unknown.

You walk understanding 

it is not this and not that

but something beyond your hands

ungraspable.

And you fall into the next step

off the map

and into the land.

—Lorena

Aún

todavía extrañamos

nuestra cola

de cuando éramos sirenas,

buceando

en el vientre del Via Láctea

girando dentro

de una constelación sideral

cuando todavía soñábamos

con los destellos centelleantes

de las hadas 

que nos salpicaban el rostro 

con magia

mientras dormíamos,

antes de nacer,

cuando aún

nos dedicábamos

a parpadear

entre las estrellas—

ahora, en la tierra,

todavía recordamos

lo que es nube,

lo que estrella,

lo que son las distancias

inmensurables,

lo que es descansar—

des-can-sar

en el regazo

grávido

y en los brazos

ingrávidos

del universo.

—Lorena Wolfman

Tonight the streets glow

Edahí and I walk hand in hand after a chance meeting on the sidewalk,

His eyes are brimming with uncontained excitement

his cousin, Lian, skips along behind after five years in the United States,

is so excited to be home discovering her pueblo mágico

not a cloud in the sky just inscrutable depth

everything drenched in a deluge of wonder 

tonight the streets shine just for her 

here and there the Milky Way peaks through 

from beyond the threadbare veil of electric light 

She asks if I speak English 

and is delighted there is someone else who shares her code. 

In the Parroquia San Pedro de los Pozos

aflame with the light centuries collected

reflecting from gold leaf and silver 

And there la Virgen del Carmen, la Fátima, San Pedro himself

And of course, el Cristo, el señor de los trabajos at the center

In this nave faith is everything

A sea of of people from the pueblo

listens to Bach on Violin

listening to Carlos Gardel

and to duet of bésame mucho in an arrangement made for the evening

Most of the women wear their hair down

Dark rivers of fathomless mystery

Even those with their tied back

carry the ancestral shroud of their ancestral origin

glowing inwardly

Salud with her two handsome sons on either side

listens attentively then her eyelids drop

a long day but she is here

Beside me Edahí plays

—the grandson of Eduardo the deceased artist

who was my friend 

coconspirator in finding wonder—

but finally says he is bored...

his grandmother, Lian and Edahí trickle 

out through the pews before the concert has ended.

Closer to the front Salud— who used to make tortillas on a woodburning comal,

and now sells the plants she cultivates—sits up tall in the space between her sons.

The Covarrubias are all present.

Those who are absent but indelibly inked on the parchment of our souls are also here

carried in on the vibrant strings of violins.

—Lorena Wolfman (Agosto 2025)

The secret life of wrinkles

 

Just as all things

wrinkles have a secret life.

They multiply in drawers,

in closets,

on bedsheets,

on faces,

and dry leaves—

across time.

Wrinkles live in old letters,

creased by longing—

in the folds of maps

where the journey changed direction.

Even the surface of a pond wrinkles

when the wind writes its name.

They soften with movement,

with sunlight, with joy,

with the warmth of a caress,

guiding them onto a single plane—

on linen they yield

to the searing breath

of an iron sighing steam.

On water, they smooth

like glass when the wind calms.

Wrinkles contract and release

like a heart beating,

like a bellows fanning flames,

like hands clasping and letting go.

Wrinkles disappear and reappear,

and sometimes

come to stay

in the thoughtful furrow of your brow—

or they deepen like moonbeams

that have traced the vectors of light

twinkling in your eyes

again and again.

Where there is life

there are wrinkles—

on faces, on linens,

on the skin of the earth,

and on water,

moving of their own volition

in a dance

with time, movement, wind,

light, heat, and moisture...

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2015)

Soy la llama

 

Soy la llama parpadeante

gozosa

cambiante

fluyente

limpiando todo

en lo profundo

llama líquida

plasma misterioso

olas

danzando

creando

vitalidad...

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, traducción 2025)