Johanna Venho

Here is Light, he is wandering in the archipelago, along the lace-like coast, along the edge of baked pancakes. Here is Light, he is a transparent child, he is tattered along the edges and takes the journey, a full-blown raft, jollyboat trusting the wind. He’s not conscious at all. In his thoughts he tastes the green algae on the beach stone, cleans his teeth with saltwater. Knee-deep Light wades and rushes stitch his thighs and at the end of the dock floats the lumpy spoiled porridge, he reaches out towards it, translucent and windowy child, easier to interpret than a mirror or handwriting, he stretches forward pulled by a greater power, undercurrent? sea wind? or is that the way he trips into knowledge, i just meant to dip a little, what is happening to us?

When we are on the edge of the incomprehensible we don’t talk logically and our talk is as clear as well water. Light mumbles, signals. I tell him: in the moss you can wander and dream, pop into a house to grow old, become tender. Rope woven of black and of white, how much can you carry without breaking your back? Light wraps his arms around my neck, his mouth is at my ear, the midsummer rose bursts into blossom and there is mist in the meadow, an old woman picks seven flowers, to grow old and soft. Rope woven and garland woven of black and of white, dance me, fly me, it’s soon over. Light brings tears to my eyes, the flower revives in the well water, the coldest, deepest: loveys, children, just one moment more, give me a little push, swing-out, swing-back, on the edge of the well, wrap your arms around my neck.

I wish I knew! –You have to know, you are an adult! I take an answer from the rack, put it on, heavy coat. In this coat we walk the ploughed road to work in the morning, from work to market, from market to home. A fur hat and sturdy boots complement this coat. I wish I knew, I walk in the sleet with my aching love: if you asked, I’d go anywhere, I go nowhere though the trains are leaving, I walk the sleety route and lead Light, he tends to stop every once in a while, he gets tired. There’s snow falling from the tree to the ground, it’s the same voice as when someone dies, you have to talk all the time with a voice that fits under your tongue, fits into the sore heart, call for love with that voice, sometimes it happens to you a bare hand grazes your hand in the crowd, give me more! and a miracle: it gives and gives.

She has been sprinkled here and there. She is dream and water, they slip through fingers and are like only a few things a condition of life. Or she is blood, bone pain, meat and potatoes.
Of moments when pieces snap together there are only a few, once in the streetcar on a summer’s morning, after a sleepless night –
Those moments die as soon as you grasp them: the way a lizard’s tail stays on the hot stone and curls up, shrinks. The lizard is hurting, it grows a new one, hides.

Once again sunk into the pit mouths eyes full of clay all orifices stopped up you’re not struggling, one might think you’re dead
but rising up into the air bright forest wind dries out the clay and blows open hole by hole the best songs