Two Poems by Stephen Rosenshein

Descending Colca Canyon with Alan from Lima

His fingers were ever working as we descended. I wanted to touch them, see if they could really be that stubby and callous. They would feel like the silt that lined the walls, the rough but delicate rock that stained to the touch with red dust.  He took flimsy rice papers and rolled joints we smoked down to the nub, tossed into the chasm as we sank lower and lower. They burned evenly the whole way down. We were becoming so small. We could hear the river clearly, above the sound of his red Pumas hitting the dirt.  Rain started to fall.  Little droplets stuck to the dirt, to his glasses. The drops were like clouds blocking his sharp green eyes. We cut fist-sized holes in plastic bottles with his switchblade. He showed me how to gather the prickly red fruits from the tops of Tuna cacti, how to shake the bottles to loosen the spines. In the oasis at the bottom of the canyon, we sat under the shelter of a bamboo thatch roof, peeling back the dangerous layer of the fruit, snacking on the sweet juices, spitting out the seeds.

WINTER IN SANTIAGO

In the winter in Santiago,

they cut the tops of trees

along the sidewalk

so old men with brooms

do not have to lazily sweep

brown and yellow

veiny leafs,

to let rosy faced

and frozen travelers pass.

Trees too tall

to cut and maim

let go. Withered leafs

fall and settle where

they land. There,

old men must sweep

in the morning

the leafs that lie

dead and dying

under your feet

and a light drizzle,

stick to shoes

like fly paper.

You stop and find

a purple or red flower,

hiding from the winter

amid the brown

and yellow foliage.