Light
       

The light gradually eats away at
the image, at the contours, and at
the words, stealing a dot here, a
curvature there, a lone slender

stalk that used to be an I
until it was eaten away by
forgetfulness, first the serifs became
indistinct and the black became

uncertain, as if perpetually
asking itself: am I really a mark
on the page? and it asked the
question so many times that the

light saw its advantage, and
answered: no, no, no, and so with
that, the I relinquished its hold on
that one millimeter of space

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Copyright © 2015 Ottilie Mulzet All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission