poem by Leslie Gerber from my book "Lies of the Poets" (Post-Traumatic Press) 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.