The Girl with Glass Eyes

Alone in the stand, as blank and mute
as if she were the culprit, she wishes for
a cubicle of bullet-proof glass to keep
those prying looks at bay as the Defence
throws a case history at her: "This … "victim",
this runaway with persecution mania,
this walking textbook of hysterical symptoms —
illusory constriction of belly
and womb, delusions regarding (I ask you!)
"poisoned hair", that phantom throat-blockage…'
She stands there, unmercifully thin,
with clumps out of her hair, a concave posture.
Is she still beautiful? Clearly, her Counsel
thinks so. He listens as she tells her tale,
lets no-one speak until she's finished.
The Counsel for the Defence jumps up again:
Her evidence is all circumstantial,
her lack of guile suggests to him a mask
for impure motives — besides, if her story
were true, she's been a culpable fool.
The clock insists on its version of time,
the judge's eyebrows descend, as she steps down,
refusing the hand of her lawyer. She breathes
freely, her spine regains its upright curve.
The jury wear her story on their faces.