Julie Easley

our footprints were the same – marks in time and place, whispers

on the land. hers had longer toes, a lighter touch, her higher arch scarcely

skimming the surface of the red dust road. you could tell

I was following, hers paused occasionally, turning

and smudging the powdered earth between us, gathering up

the grains in pinched skin. her footsteps were rhythmic, heartbeat

paced, moments of movement that mourned the song

of the mother. she danced a little, displaced the land beneath belonging

feet, placed her land beneath her feet. our bodies became

the map, charting out the points where we lingered

longingly, where the dappled sunlight dripped on us like melting

butter, running down our bare flesh onto crusted

paths. we merged into one as we rounded the river, disappearing

into cooling waters quenching that part of us that thirsted

for more. we swam till fading light beckoned

us home, our impressions trailing behind tired

limbs, through bush-lined lanes into the mass of structures that bore

the town. we left our embrace in the earth, toes melting into toes obscuring

our separation, and as the sky dimmed into night we promenaded

the parade of hotels, where the tone of her feet was too dark to glide

through the guarded gates into the gilded paradise of cocktails and canned

laughter. in her country it was the pale stranger at her side who held

the keys. we retreated to the welcome noise of the downtown

bar that had no care of the colour of our soles and rested, pressing

our toes together as if in prayer. if by chance you were soaring

overhead and happened to glance upon us, you’d find two figures playing

footsie like childhood friends in the park.