The Flight of Cuatro Ojos

Oh cuatro ojos, what do you see in the barren landscape
of the Guatemala City dump? High above this forty-acre ravine,
can you make out the addict’s syringe,
the dinner rolls from Kentucky Fried Chicken,
the soiled toilet paper from Hotel Antigua?

Do you watch, with interest, the guajero’s child
who trudges each day to sift the waste of millions
for plastic her mother will sell for a few quetzales?

Which of your four eyes keeps a check
on the vultures that circle above her head,
on the still-moist condoms beneath her feet,
on the headless dolls she gathers, with gratitude, to her chest?

Cuatro ojos, it seems, are not enough to take in the child of the guajero—
un corazon not ample enough to hold the ache of her existence.