A Mouse Before the Jury

Before the jury, I am a mouse.

They ask me if I am sorry.
I can only speak of how his hands looked
small as dead bird hearts.

I hate their looks, their sideways
glances to each other
and under their gaze I become a sparrow
scratching their eyes til they bleed—

I have misbehaved, they tell me.
They make me their pet bird.
My cage is white-walled and soft
but I do not trust it.
I demand again and again to see the bone queen.
They tell me she will not come.