Menagerie

Not all of them were changed to swine.
She kept experimenting,
intuiting their hidden selves,
unlived wishes:
body of a lion; head of a horse;
wolverine eyes; voice of nightingale.
Dignity had nothing to do with it:
they stood composed, liberated,
accepting their natures.
Once she tried transforming one
into an image she might desire.
She concentrated. Would this work—
the most quixotic magic of all?
A crinkly sound. Was that a dragonfly—
out the window before she could blink,
skywriting in silver across a rainbow?
The wrong page, the wrong potion —
why does she always get light-headed
when it's been raining?
It's dusk:
now she must mix their feed—
for that she will need her wits about her.