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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. 

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