Everyone has a twin somewhere. Like a childgiven up at birth, I look for my featureswherever I go. Doppelganger, you could beon your way down High Street to the carryoutor in a village in Newfoundland. I know the luckyou bring, but I can’t stop seeking you outlike radio waves transmitting concentric circles—a ticker tape of o-mouths spooling. Other self,I want to project myself to where you are.I want to float beside you and trace your shapewith my finger, like drawing a line on a bottleof liquor. But you won’t feel me rufflingyour hair. You won’t look at me. You only echomy movements, a sleepwalker. Other doer,with you around, everything is slightly off,like when Dylan went electric. The hours arestriped with light as yellow as old newspapers;the moon is grainy as an obituary photograph.Not quite a door, I stand ajar. I’m two placesat once. I’m watching a movie, but the personplaying me isn’t acting. Double walker,you’re not so bad. You don’t have red eyesand a black, v-shaped uni-brow like mostevil twins. But you won’t look my way. You speakbut not to me. Your voice, which is mine,crackles like a phone call from another country.____Maggie Smith is the author of Lamp of the Body (Red Hen Press, 2005) and Nesting Dolls (Pudding House, 2005). She has received two Academy of American Poets Prizes, several Pushcart Prize nominations, and two generous fellowships from the Ohio Arts Council. She currently works as an editor in Columbus, Ohio, and has new poems forthcoming in the Gettysburg Review, Indiana Review, Florida Review, Third Coast, Indiana Review, Massachusetts Review, and elsewhere.