Demystifying strètloghts as a typo for stray light

by Kosisochukwu Precious Onuoha

In Catholicism, the mystery of light is Thursday nights—

one day left till the weekend 

and i’m fed up already.

i'm walking on the thin line of curbing, 

foot in front of the other

like a tightrope, and i'm clutching 

your shoulder so i don't fall off.

we stroll around the campus 

this way most nights, together.

LED motion-sensors 

flickering to life ten paces away, 

flooding two waxy figures blurring together.

and what to make of it, this togetherness, 

this elbow tentatively bumping mine?

at the stretches of dark 

in-between lamps 

you are talking 

about your dad in the hospital 

after the stroke, 

about watching the squiggles of his heart 

write itself out on the EKG, 

and that's the kind of art we want to see:

green lines on dark screens, 

real time electric, 

child-like elementary and

life-insisting.

the paradox of light, 

particulate and waveform, 

lies in its stretch—

its continuous stream of grit 

through my knees, my eyes,

as i overbalance and scrape my shin on the asphalt—

in the sinuous glint of 

tears not here yet.

it's minutes till curfew,

hours till dawn and

your dry palm is gripped in mine.

i can feel it seeping through our cracks already.

do you feel it too,  this light trying  to come in?

Bio:

Kosisochukwu Precious Onuoha is a Nigerian poet. Her work has appeared in Chestnut Review.