Ballet de Radis

You'd think I'd pine for Scarlett Globe
or some other comely vessel, but when
the arrow stung, my head was turned
by Raphan, the butcher's deformed daughter.
She pirouettes on her one spindly leg, her
cou-de-pied, like cream, like ivory and what
a rump!  I'd watch her from the forest's edge
afraid my heart would ignite the trees.  Her spirit
and her spunk would spurn the most malignant tease.
Then Tenellus came, curse his name, the White Russian
Cossack whom she snubbed.  Filled with rage,
he struck; his ruddy prisiadka kicks
butchered my sweet, my tart.  What could
I do, a mere enchanted wolf, possessing
no useful magic?  Only a bittersweet pas-de-deux
to say adieu as I carried her to the lake where
she swelled into a rose, and heartsick, I performed
the arabesque of the aphids until dawn.

First published in Denver Quarterly Summer 2007