Sleep Journal

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.

TERRIE ELAINE JOPLIN

Terrie Elaine Joplin taught English in public schools in Illinois, North Carolina, and Washington, and holds an MS in education and National Board Certification. Her work appears in Pteranodon, ONE ART, and MER Online Folio. Terrie and her husband reside in Mamaroneck, New York, with her daughter’s family and four cats.