Christopher Palmer
Looking for Alexander
Between the Rosetta Stone and the Siege of Tobruk
voices of the dead gust from Canopian Gate
into another century’s idea of shape and structure;
the deeper past weighed down like life
at the bottom of the sea. To the west is a small village
where a grandfather stepped ashore and never left.
Further still, spit mixes with sand to make bricks and mortar.
Around us, shopkeepers make promises
as bright and heavy as the gold of King Midas.
The ancient lecture theatre laughs, saying nothing.
We get lost in a poorer area, are quickly surrounded by people
talking and touching us in a language we don’t understand.
A passing taxi becomes our harbour.
Soon, a tram will clip my right shoulder, warning us
to get out of the way, to move on, that there’s nothing to see
as Pompey’s Pillar points an orange glow toward heaven
and the flooded catacombs of Kom el Shuqafa
extinguish our search.
History is all that’s left here; his likeness nowhere.