Sophie Lynne Creations

A delicate shifting of the broken clasp

Coaxed migration to the nape of her neck

And the rhythm of the tremble of the chain

A stain like wine at the middle of her chest

Where the sureness of the silver itches her skin red

Her nails scratch and spread the puddle

Drunk fingers at a dinner party that persist to make it worse

Ticking where the pendant sways– tock

She’s the cornered and splintered grandfather clock

Taking shelter in the reliability of cool metal

In the therapy of touch, familiarity of irritation

It rests only now, so I pull her in

And the clasp falls forward

And she fingers it as if to start a sentence