They say she’s a mouse transformed into a girl

by some witch’s gratitude or vengeance.

You can tell by the hair, a drab marriage of browns and grays

with a dress to match. Another indication:

the way she’s always scurrying about,

eyes oscillating like pendulums

between streets and coaches, horses and passersby.

And what about the cheese-and-crackers lunch

she always brings to her workstation next to ours

in Madame Seamstress’ shop?

She squeals when spoken to,

she eats among frayed ribbons and fabric scraps

with nibbles small but swift, as if she’s used to other rodents

snatching nourishment away,

and cunning cats lurking in the background

ready to catch her in sharp-clawed ambush.

Which is why we say to you with utmost certainty:

she is a mouse transformed into a girl.