If Nosferatu were a gardener
he would raise beets
and beets alone,
fang-rooted Romanian blood bulbs,
vampire of vegetables.
Sucking redness from radish veins
leaving its innards colorless.
Rutabagas, potatoes, parsnips
are no match for its red-robbing wiles.
Only the longer rooted carrot
has managed through the centuries
to cleave to a bit of orangeness.
There is an eastern European wives tale
claiming that before the beet bit
you could get blood from a turnip.

Bubbling in a borscht bowl,
the beet could sustain our fabled count
through those long cold damselless nights.

This poem first appeared in Vampyr Verse (Popcorn Press, 2009) 
and Verse Wisconsin (Spring 2010).
Used here with the author’s permission.