Quito
As I walk the streets of Quito,
I weave through mango peels and dogshit.
I dream of love.
And of white roses that never die.
My head bowed,
I avoid eye contact with sweaty men
Who believe they have the God-given right
To look at my body as if they own it.
And whistle at me as if I were a dog.
Quito smells like work and smoke and urine and anger.
Traffic is at a standstill because of student protests.
It’s no secret the youth are raging against so much more
than a seven cent increase in bus fares.
As I wander the lonely path of mango peels and dogshit,
I pass graffiti crying “Fuera Bush de Latino America.”
I dream of vandalizing the city walls with love poems.
I pass niños chiquitos in their red and blue school uniforms,
And well-shined leather shoes.
They walk hand-in-hand,
I admire their bravery.
I stop in a florería to buy sixteen white roses for a buck-fifty.
I recall days past when I bought roses as a declaration of my love.
The taxistas ask me why I’m here and if I’m soltera.
“Mi novio está en los Estados Unidos,” I dutifully lie,
As we pass countless young mothers and their children,
selling platanos asados, chewing gum, and beaded earrings.
I look to the west to the mountains.
They help me recall secrets buried deep beneath my skin.
They reveal all that I need to know but nothing more,
They ignite my spirit with feelings of love and righteousness.
My footsteps weave through mango peels and dogshit.
I marvel at the burning sun and the angry rain.
Quito can’t make up its mind,
And nor can I.
I want to destroy it and embrace it,
I want to forget it and never let it go.
I dream of love.
And of white roses that never die.
Sharon Lebenkoff