You are my Alexandria,
My unforgotten city,
Your eyes the harbor with its red sails,
Your brows the seawall bearing the brunt,
And in your mind are the casbah and Armenian Quarter.
The hamals bend under the burden
Of a beautiful woman who cast a spell,
Whose heart pumped venom,
But my compassion shall permeate her
And she will weep in a shuttered room.
Lighters deliver crews and provisions for the galley,
And cranes lower to the wharf memories baled in burlap:
Those unheated classrooms and Mr. Kızılbaş;
Trains on the horizon in midwinter,
Still on the horizon an hour later,
As if the earth turned the wrong way;
Pushing the ram into the temple bell at Sendai,
The tolling lingering for a moment over the frozen city;
Your first boy standing left foot on right knee,
Just like the aboriginals in Stone Age Australia;
The saint who warned us his stay would be brief,
Who is waiting somewhere for us,
Waiting to take our hands.
Your tongue is the polyglot tongue of Alexandria,
Your voice the Russian priest leading the choir.
We sit, you and I, at the café with Da Capo who sends his servant
To whisper to passing women, but we are content to watch the tram
Screech around the curve
And amid sparks disappear into the souk.

June 26th, 2007