Sophie Johnson

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
Where the pendant sways tick-tock
She’s the tall and splintered grandfather clock
Who takes shelter in the reliability of cool metal
In the therapy of touch, tempting familiarity of irritation
It rests only now, so I pull her in
And the clasp migrates forward
And she fingers it as if to start a sentence