A Poem by Ali Choudhary

Entrances and Exits

After Father X reads a prayer
over the monks’ graves, he walks beside me,
telling me of this abbot and that one—

which one grafted his mind
into saplings for God, what life
was led by the one whose grave is speckled

by three goldfinches, trilling
in the tonsured light, frills of vermillion
around their button eyes.
I listen, patient, wanting

to be taught. Agonise again
over the life I might lead, forever apprenticing
to endings I have not yet experienced.

There are apples that cushion the ground—
delectable, dying—bevelled pearls
suspended at the entrance
to an ending I know of, but they do not.

I can feel my own heart now.
Stiff. Wet. Eclipsed. Winter.
Can feel it twitch in its ivory coffin.

I am warned of the dangers
of spending a life like this suspended
between symbol and metaphor.

Soon: The bell ringing for compline.

Soon: I will lean into
that valve of sound, its shadow.

Soon: In bed, the ceaseless tocsins
of memory will begin their knelling.

Soon: Night will fall. Night is falling. Night has fallen.
“Night was cast into darkness for her Fall.”

Originally from Ireland, and now based across the water, Ali Choudhary is a writer and artist. He is the recipient of the Eavan Boland Award by Poetry Ireland, among other honours, including being selected as a finalist for the Adroit Prize for Poetry and the Loraine Williams Poetry Prize. Ali's poems appear in Protean Magazine, Shenandoah, and more.