THE PRESIDENT'S THIGHS HIDE OUT IN THE ROSE GARDEN

before rhinestones
evaporate from
jade petals,
they hide their

white under navy,
pale as a chrysalis,
they coil under
linen trying to

lose their accent,
their flab. One
rubs the other
as if clapping.

Dark cloth like
a bundling board
in some snow covered
New England farm house

circa 1792 where
two slept under
the same quilt
but with pine

between them
still wanting what
they wanted but
pressed to stay pure

© 1995 by Lyn Lifshin.

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