Mona covers her face when she laughs,
I presume, to hide her teeth
which reach out of her mouth
like hands on the walking dead.
Her thin frame is draped with scant clothing
and a child on each hip.
Her bun curls into the nape of her neck,
We build her family a house
and not a very nice one, at that,
but nonetheless with windows
and walls and a solid floor.
She and her husband are younger than I.
Gaunt faces, deflated cherubs fallen
from the sky into this starved, trashed
forgotten villa, on the outskirts of Buenos Aires
where no one with breast implants or
a designer suit