Like Her
Someone who looks like her
is in the bed at night,
at the table in the morning,
walks with the dogs,
but doesn’t talk like her,
doesn’t wash her face,
knows me as a shadow.
Someone who sounds like her
may answer the phone
but doesn’t know what to say,
when asked her name
cannot respond,
mixes up the dogs’ names,
sometimes with mine.
Someone who moves like her
sometimes opens the door
but doesn’t know old neighbors,
cringes at the sight
of the postman,
looks at the mail
as if it were a meteorite.
Someone who feels like her
reacts to a hug
by hardening
and then doesn’t feel like her.
Retreats from water.
Wants more clothes
to protect her from touch.
Someone who looks like her
was once the sun
and now sleeps on the dark side
of the moon.
When she wakes, she watches
pages from her book
as they float off into space.
(from my book "Lies of the Poets")
Woodstock, NY
