picnic basket you wanted two of everything & for you i became an arch. two forks. two blankets. two mouths. the geese set candles out on the edges of the pond. night came like spilled nectar. skin sugared, the bugs came with their lovers. mosquitos & ants & gnats. i thought you were going to ask to make a wine glass of me. instead you kissed me like a bowl of blackberries. stains. the picnic open, i thought if only i could crawl inside & become just an ornament. a folded blanket. a tiny white plate. to be a gender is to be told over & over again what you are useful for. pleading for you to carve a forest around me. your love of knives. darkness coming sooner than we thought. i whispered that we should take shelter in the picnic basket. you were stubborn. until i mentioned we were one of both kinds: a concave & convex mirror. you loved to be any kind of pair. & so we slipped in. listened as the night tied all its loose ends. foot fall of gods. the police car shining a light in the car window & telling us to put our lives back on. my gender was all over. mosquitoes who left jewels across my shoulders. the picnic basket's half-eaten worlds. red apple. ripe melon. me asking to drive us home & you saying, "no, i need to." a cracked window. ants with their lovers. two painted turtles underneath the pond's water gossiping about what they saw of us.