Allison Joseph

Period

Little black globe of authority,
finality, you are the world’s
freckle, dot that hard-smacks me
at the end of sentences I’m not
even sure I should have written.
Bullet for the broken-hearted,
fleck of fear, speck that burns
when I try of flick it off the page,
stuck solemn as a street sign,
full stop my fingers obey, eyes
honor. Such power something
so small, seemingly insignificant
but never scarce. How is it
you get to dictate all our
beginnings, endings, so smug
in potent squalor, ubiquitous
beyond all reason. If I leave
you out, skip you, ignore you,
you only call attention through
your absence, haunting as you
disappear. You speak
the unspeakable braille,
send messages that pierce
and shatter, little dagger,
eyedropper, final stitch
in the fabric of the word.