The story that needs to be told
is the one recited in his sleep.
He wants to carry it into the day
but its words won’t wake with him.
Now when he speaks, it sounds
like a cracked bell, and the doors
he opens ache on their hinges,
an echo diminishing, the trace
of a road erased from a map.
When he asks for directions,
they always lead to where the rain
drives its nails into the ground.
David Desjardins is a journalist with roots in Rhode Island who has worked at the Boston Globe, the Providence Journal, and other newspapers. His short stories have been published in Ruminate, Roanoke Review, the Worcester Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Arlington, Massachusetts, with his wife.