a blanket lays crumpled on short grass:
legs outstretched
arms propped up 
sat awkwardly
uncomfortably 
trying all to do this neatly
but there's crumbs on our knees 
and salsa on our chins
beetroot dances on fresh white tees
paths between us lead by green edamame beans.

Rosé. Gently. Warms.

Someone complains about the olives
and they're right: this is too much plastic.

Centrestage a white triangle of brie 
a compass to a full belly
a direction on which we all agree

A chutney I made.
Onions I caramelized 
in buckets of balsamic which stung my eyes
all that effort for just a little jar of something,
just to say we did this, 
we do this,
we are this.

We are:
one of us saying the sentence "god I could smash an oat milk latte" and really meaning it
We are batons of carrots and "what do you mean you didn't wash the grapes!?" 
We are makeshift mojitos and blurry group photos
We are the one of us who always brings something novel
like rainbow drops and party rings 
like wagon wheels and liquorice
We are the serious one gifting garden grown garlic.

We are warm wine on warm days
an infinity circle of dishes travelling through hands
and this is how we say we love each other:
in bread and tuna pasta
In tahini
In carrot cake
In quiche
In cashews

A picnic blanket covered in a million ways to say I love you too

I sit there with five hula hoops across five fingers
making five proposals to myself
on the last I look up,
I see the bread passed, 
moments held, 
shared laughs 

On the fifth hula hoop I make a contract with myself: 
I will always eat like this.
In the open. 
And always with love.
No matter how many times I'm told the reasons not to
I will always find reason to eat
I will always eat like this.