on the occasion of the Spring Solstice 323 BC

My darling, dearest mother

Is it time yet for me to return home?

I have conquered the world

as we know it and I am homesick.

I have never encountered anything

as beautiful as our Aegean sunsets

or as satisfying as your homemade

moussaka from your mother’s recipe

on a cold winter’s night.

My victory over the Persian King

came too easily, intrigue

from his closest friend

killed him from behind

before my troops reached him

making it a hollow one

I am weary from battle

and from being Pharaoh

all these accolades and week long

wedding celebrations

are meaningless

without your warm kiss on my forehead

after a job well done

or Aristotle’s bad in-jokes

or even father’s tirades

about Macedonian tax structure.

I have been writing a song about

loving an ordinary woman

who lived across the street.

my Roxana cannot hold a candle

to her, though I loved my wife at first sight.

You must never tell her

about the other one.

You must protect her and my son

as best you can when I have gone.

Once I left a white rose

on this woman’s doorstep

and I never even learned her name

lest I succumb to a mortal life

of hard, honest work

without treachery and intrigue

simple as birdsong.

grueling with its hardship

for what is there left to conquer

once you’ve conquered everything?

How I miss the familiar

and routine of the marketplace.

How I would’ve preferred

to cast my net with fisherman

knowing that we all meet

the same fate,

that it will only matter if we are loved.

Mother, please,

I have seen my destiny

and my coin at the ready

for Charon’s ride

for quite some time now.

Let me come home, I beg you,

one last time to hear the sparrow

nesting on the side porch

the fire in the hearth

and the heroes resting

among the stars

as you see them now

from your window.

The daffodils are just coming to life

fooled by the warming climate,

the snowy owl calling for his mate.

Let me take my inglorious end

as an old man reveling

in his remembering

of glory and passion, aye me,

this will not be my fate

foretold like an ancient map

drawn on Egyptian papyrus

in an oracle’s temple.

Would that I could die in my sleep

with my children and grandchildren

gathered round me

kissing their heads

one after another in warm embrace

leaving peacefully as a lamb.

But it is written I am to die alone.

This love of fate weighs on me

and the memory of your face comforts me.

My thoughts have turned

melancholy and seeing you

would cheer me

in an indescribable way.

This is not how our story

will be told.

I must ride elephants to the river

tomorrow and the day after

do something grander still

and then it will all be gone.

Remember me if you can

and love me

to the moon and back.

With deepest, undying love,

your Alexander

Kelly J. Powell is a poet native to Long Island and a graduate of SUNY Binghamton’s Creative Writing Program in 1988. She has performed widely on Long Island and NYC. She has a new book of poems called Posthumously Yours from local gems press available on Amazon.