Lene Fogelberg

In strength the body only knows itself, is full of itself, its movements, its words, but in weakness is the invisible and the whisperings.

Maybe there is an invisible world working behind our own, maybe words in the silence, maybe movements in what looks completely still. When every door is closed, maybe doors are opening that can__ be seen.

The cicadas buzzing, I can hear them through the window. Buzzing louder and louder. Just like the night I sat by the window in the dark, gasping for air, feeling the riddle wriggling in my chest, hearing the monster's heavy footsteps in my ears. And suddenly I know. What they do all those years living in the ground. The nymphs who are to become cicadas. Maybe they don__ know it themselves, but they are writing their song. Collecting the notes in the dark earth. The song rising to the sky, this is how it is, this is how it always is. The song floating toward the sky comes from the underworld.

Dancing is like poetry written by our bodies: our outstretched arms our words of longing.

Sometimes you know that you are destined to die, but somehow you are given a parenthesis after the punctuation mark: more years, more time that wasn__ meant for you but still was meant for you, a bridge stretching out into the stars, a confidence built of invisible threads, a miracle.

He laughs again and I want to eat his laughter, be nourished by it, feel it in my blood.