Joan Biddle's blog

Please put me with your hands. My palms are empty. I counted down from ten each time I dared to think you loved me. Now, of course, I'm scared I'll seduce the second world too soon and empty this first one out before I've finished it. Among my scattered notes you'll find the first heart I ever drew. Written in the worst French, Please, put me with your hands. And it meant that I wanted to feel surrendered to. Some nights, awake, I wonder why we leave the dust behind that we do. Does grief grieve itself? The cells and circumstances we liken to living are what slough away. We've seen the light that grows inside us. Long as bones. And white.

published in The Nation

Love of the world is so clearly come and go,

the way we talk sounds beautiful and sad.

You have to try these three words before you can

say the harder thing.

The air at evening crumbles into rose flakes.

The wind like a child’s breath.

This is cement. It's’ almost hard now, but when it’s new, it’s soft.

If we step in it then it’ll be there forever.

To describe is to praise, I’ve always felt that.

Two crows fly up and disappear into the depths of the redwood.

Talking with Sarah in bed I touch her hair.

How often do we use the word “safe” each day? Thanks,

a walk sounds nice. When I write this

winter I trace lines of motion I conclude

I’ve lived. My mentor tell me I am

more than a series of inclinations,