the shadows emerge
from hidden places
under my skin
out of the forgotten horrors
of my foremothers
lodged in secret crevices
between the bones and the organs
crockodiles fetuses ideologies
broken dreams
kept alive by refusal
the act of not recognizing
mine theirs yours
My grandmother is your grandmother
What we pretend not to know
about our own grandmothers
silent torture
the silent nightmare—
the one my grandmother
bore in the bones of her legs
because her legs were strong—
this nightmare is written in our bones
held in our ears
with which we don't want to hear
lodged in the coclear spiral
where the universe should live
and nourish our soul
but we have refused to hear it
until now
now we have been given grace
now we have been given the chance
to hear with our heart
our liver
our belly
our soul
we can hear what they could not speak
what we have dared not admit
but now the old fortresses are crumbling
the only rule is love
—Lorena Wolfman
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