Perhaps a clump of hair and teeth
grinning ghastly wordless at the world
inside of me, inside of you,
is all that’s left of some poor vanished twin,
a monstrous fossil of comfortable shared time
within the womb.
Each and any of us could have been a twin,
our singular loneliness explained
by half our flesh and bone
gone missing, lost to us,
off alone somewhere
in space and time.
Like the four-legged human prototypes
so cruelly sliced in two in that strange story
told at Socrates’ love-hungry feast,
we wander the green earth
forever snatching, grabbing, clutching
at hands and hearts,
hunting our other half –
the only one
who’ll ever understand
the scars, the gaping
vacancies that edge
our selves and souls.