Poetry: “Abecedarian for God-fearing Men and Real Estate” by Ali Choudhary
Abecedarians require precision in order to make their arrangement of alphabetical beginning letters sing lyrically, a feat which Ali Choudhary’s poem about brutish men accomplishes without diminishing its message. In fact, this arrangement brings new light to the biblical language—to “flood,” and “virginity,” and to David, Jericho, Kaddish, and Moses. But what makes this poem truly visceral is the description of the body at key moments in what has happened to the speaker, moments where their throat cramps, their body trembles, and stars light in their brain. Please note that this poem has a content warning for sexual violence.
Read Choudhary’ poem below.
Abecedarian for God-fearing Men and Real Estate
blood wiring from the wrists, shame where no one can see.
cruelty of men left me saying thank you.
David was a boy once, too—chosen, innocent, until his penis
emerged seeping semen & Bathsheba’s blood. O the
flood has not spared me, either. a grimed, brutish body
grew on top of me, my throat cramped. cage of bone hollowed by
hunger, I was consumed in the mouths of fat, famished birds.
I was only seventeen the first time & the state demanded: become clean again.
Jericho fell to shouting. penitent to silence, my pain spoke in moans.
Kaddish for the child I was, God’s judgement is mine to own.
let them come. let them see. let there be witnesses.
Moses stuttered, and God still made him speak.
no is a language I’ve spent easily in this economy. held it close to my jugular, then
opened it with one slice. oops! pleasure is umbilically tethered to pain.
please understand: it wasn’t ever about sex. it’s about real estate.
quartered like nations, make a profit from the leftover.
remember Abraham raising the knife over his son?
sometimes, the kind ones with pretty eyes hurt you the best. once, my body
trembled in some boy’s grip, stars lighting the centre of my brain,
until I collapsed. I spent four minutes swimming in the river’s black depths.
virginity is a colonial word. but loss? that’s universal, baby.
when he finished, he said I should be grateful he didn’t kill me.
x marks the spot for God-fearing men who love target practice.
yesterday, I dreamed my body back into a mirror. I miss the
zebras in the zoo. I’ve always loved an animal gazed at incessantly.
Ali Choudhary
Originally from Ireland, 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 The Adroit Journal, Shenandoah, wildness, and others.
