by Brett Rutherford
He knew these streets by heart,
through every winding lane
of the old city. Some things
were ever the same, others
as sudden as meteors,
such as the kohl-eyed woman,
just now, who offered him
a basket of figs and serpents,
lid lifted just far enough to show
forked tongues and amber eyes.
One lane, off to the east
of the Scribes' Alley, was empty
(was he that late?); another,
too near the sailors' dens,
was vacant, too. One turn,
then two, and then a third
and then he leaned to look
where two young men
squatted like beggars
in Alexandria's
most infamous alley.
One spoke, in Attic Greek
as pure as poetry,
"Hail, old man, if man you be.
You may choose between
the two of us, for no one else
is left of our brotherhood.
"Dionysius we serve, for silver."
The other, in coarser tone
coaxed him impatiently,
"What, why so choosy?
He doesn't want so much,
the pretty one, while I,
I charge a stiffer fee,
if you take my meaning.
The math is simple,
if you have a purse:
He charges by the night;
I, by the inch."
Callimachus,
out far too late,
or far too early,
judging by either moon or sun,
just shook his head and muttered,
"Neither!"
