Former Mistress of President Comes Clean at 68

Art by Peter Roman

So she pulls the shriveled corsage from the dresser drawer,
carnation tawdry yellow, long skin of arms,

all that is left of the wild dance, no pictures, no two
together, apart, yes, how could she help herself,

not that she wanted to, she wanted him, yes, but taken so,
overpowered, as if she had given no permission, Leda

and the swan, deniability riding into Washington
for an assignation, reading Madame Bovary in the back seat

of the taxi, nothing like her, no, not really, she was young,
our own innocence, the only innocence we remember,

telling a friend or two, thinking he had picked her alone—
later, the humiliation: so many called, so many chosen.