collecting 

i've been collecting footsteps--
round & melon-like heavy in a basket 
like the one you used to use
to hold potatoes at the market.
they roll on top of each other--
some gone bad in the sun-- rotted
skin & sun baking smell. the yellow-jackets
come to eat. they land on the soles of
my feet & i shoo them away before 
i start walking again. if i get stung 
you'll have to take over for me. i started
picking the foot steps up because i was hoping
i'd find all my old ones. i want to 
put them in the bottom of my sock drawer--
slice them up when i run out of apples.
if i'm thorough then no one will be able
to say that i was here-- they'll come
through this small-town years later 
after i've long moved away 
& they'll find all of these impressions-- 
the old man who walks his bassett hound-- 
the two women who hand out jevoh's witness 
pamphlets by fifth avenue & the man in the
lime-yellow shirt who gets up 
to run even in the snow. everyone's 
taste different. some sickly sweet 
like overripe mango-- the small prints
of children by the graveyard & those
from couples as they both sit on 
a bench by the park pavilion. i'm not
going to tell you about this project.
you would probably tell me that it's 
neurotic-- that there's no use in retracing
all the steps i've laid in the last 
five years. my room fills up, i have
to be careful to not leave more 
marks while i'm collecting the old ones
so i wear bubble-wrap on my feet. i'm already
packed to leave. the UPS man sometimes 
picks me up & i shake my head & gesture
to my lack of postage. some footprints
are, of course, hard to find. i spent
yesterday by the bamboo thicket where 
i kneeled, running my hands through 
the scraggle blue night-time grass. 
this was from that night i ambled
out of the party to be alone, tucked
my feet under myself & took bites
out of my heel which tasted like the
rind of an unripe cantaloupe. when i find
the prints they're syrupy & the juice
drips down my face with each bite. 
sometimes i can't help myself-- i have
to eat them right there. i don't want
any help. i do want you that to know that
you can come see the ones of yours 
i've been picking up along the way. 
i know we haven't talked in two years but i
have a shelf in my closet for you. 
your impressions  taste like tomatoes & sometimes
a fresh fig. don't worry i'm not keeping them
for myself. these are yours. when my room
is emptied out & there's nothing left of
me around here you can still go back.
i'll leave the door unlocked. in the closet
will be my old earrings from when i was a
girl & the pile of every step we took
together. ripe & soft-skinned. do
you still like peaches?