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
                                                       heartless things?
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
                                                      resolved enigmas
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.