Ballerinas mimic your pas de deux, model leg lifts
after its classic form.
Your splits inspire repertoires of acrobats,
and antic alley cats
with a talent for friction. Whatever
intersects and draws
back; whatever scrapes past or razors its way
between what's possible
and what's not, to even out the odds of falling.
Who's to say to be hinged
is a blessing, that gifts of self-closure set you apart from other
Or muscles wielding the sharpest tongues could
use a bit of trimming?
Time was, we loved ourselves so little, touch was a public sport
with jousts and foils,
a slash, a thrust—whatever the task at hand required.
Your blades hung
at the crotch of death—like a cross. Your pairs
of befuddled men and women, who so loved their trinities
they couldn't whittle down
salvation to a single course of action.
Cutting is at the heart
of being twins. By your thankless teeth, we are
halved and doubled.
You deliver us from too great a softness.