Just Before Dawn, the Mona Lisa Explodes
The protective glass shatters; oil boils
through the splintered seams.
Rust-colored paint pools on the floor,
coagulates like blood. She’s discovered
by the janitor, half mopped up before
he realizes what he’s seeing. He runs
straight to the tabloids, grainy photographs
in hand. Everyone wants to know
the details—he makes a fortune
on the talk circuit: She left a ghost image
on the wall—the outline of her head,
the shadow under her eye, one finger
cocked like a mad grin. Headlines scream
The Face of God! and Elvis Was the Mona Lisa!
An artist markets double portraits:
exploded debris on the left, on the right
a mock-up of the original, one eye winking,
her smile still pressed tight against her teeth.