#110
The first image to disappear
Is a recovered memory,
Now a vanishing Vermeer.
The woman is just scenery,
Like the map and the checkered floor,
Looking out a window or door.
She's pregnant and holds in her hand
A weapon, an artist's stylus.
She's been swallowed by her husband,
Right in front of all of us.
Both of them will disappear,
Because neither is an image,
But an embodiment of fear:
A man and wife erased by rage.
