The Streetlight
by Temiloluwa Ogunsanya
Last week, there was blood on the street.
The rainwater diluting the man’s life-giving fluid as soon as it escaped from him
Flowing through the spaces between the interlocked stones
It poured from the cuts left on his arms and face. And everywhere else.
He screamed while it happened,
While machete slashes cleaved skin and broke bones
He screamed as loud as his throat would allow
But no one heard him. No one could.
The rain drowned him and his voice.
A man hung on the street three days ago.
His lifeless body more potent than the red of a stop sign
Drawing spectators like art critics in a gallery
He did it himself. A self-portrait.
Painted his struggles in the unnatural hang of his neck
Painted his strength in the space between his feet and the ground
Painted his weakness in his tearstained face
Painted his relief in the soft sway of his body.
The day before yesterday, love blossomed on the street. A soft unfurling of heart petals,
Whispered secrets and heartfelt promises.
The man and woman drawn ever closer by invisible threads
Each shuffle, a step towards forever
The tension shifting with the tender meeting of lips
Him? Her?
Them.
Side by side now, they stare into the dark– envisioning a future.
Yesterday, a car sped across the street.
The driver, tight-fisted, scared out of his mind.
The passenger, in agonizing pain as the other inhabitant of her body prepared to grace the world with its presence
A pivotal night for them both.
Joy and sorrow wait patiently behind different doors.
Tonight, a woman is on the street.
Sitting with her head between her knees
Her shaking shoulders betraying the tears she tries to hide
And, as always, the boy sees all from his window on the first floor.
His dreams are filled with blood from a dying man
A rope helping a man defy gravity
So he looks out his window every night, knowing the monsters that live on the street
Illuminated only by the glow of its lone Streetlight.
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