She keeps her necklaces untidily
in a wooden box not meant for jewellery,
tossed in at the end of each day
one on top of the other and locked away.
Like thoughts that tangle overnight.
When she’s decent she picks one that feels right
to her rummaging fingertips,
her teeth and tongue that tell of plastic,
glass, metal, wood or bone, and
the weighing of her enduring hand.
She's learned all their imperfections
through constant, fiddling exploration
and, as though her touch can talk to yours,
she’ll tell you of her favourite flaws.
Books you read till they fall apart. Peaceful places.
Songs you play to anyone. Those few faces.
The contents of a heart. Her necklaces.
