by Tolu Ogunlesi
Slinking away into the corner of the car-park,
Or perhaps it was across the eternal middle
Of the highway; slowly becoming one with the aging
Darkness – until the ultra-violent arrival of light.
This approaching death refuses to be dressed
In dark clothes, but instead in ill-fitting garments
Of light, double-barrelled from the crossed-eyes
Of an approaching car, and full of taunting:
‘Pussycat, Pussycat, where else have you been?’
As you go to your death, my dear,
There will be no drop-down menu asking you
To select which of nine faithful lives
Should step forward first, to bell death.
But there should be no regrets as well.
In the approaching car is a couple tending
A dead marriage. Out of death, therefore, will come
More death, and out of light, a final, silent, bleeding
Darkness, that will not lift, not even at dawn.
We go to death, or it comes to us; never is it
A chance meeting, on a no-man’s land.
Published in The London Magazine; February / March 2008 (print)