Bargain

This is a pair of handmade shoes
Awkward and lovely like the maiden behind the stand
Gold peonies bloom unabashed on red corduroy tops
White soles are made of layered cloth
Pasted on a door with flour
A slow air dry in the moonlight
Stitches lined up neatly
like terra-cotta soldiers on battle grounds

This is a pair of shoes
I’ve been seeking for years
The craft my grandma tried to pass on
Before I left home for good
Without trying them on, I know
They would comfort my calloused soles
Let me run like a whirlwind
Make me feel like
A sword drawn out of its sheath

And we start the bargain.

“Ten,” she says, “for the sake of fate
That brought you to this desert town.”
“Five,” I say without thinking,
a trick from my American partner.
“Good joke, Big Sister,” she laughs,
deep creases flashing across her frostbitten face.
I blush for no reason.
“Six then,” I say, avoiding her hands
that bring back Grandma,
her flickering shadow on the wall threading a needle.
“Come on, Sister, have some respect.”
“Okay, seven. Can’t go up any more.
Respect has to be mutual, don’t you think?”
“Barely enough to pay for the materials, Sis,”
her voice low, wet like the drizzle.
“No mercy,” I repeat the mantra drilled into my brain.
“Peddlers are good at arousing sympathies.
That’s how they make a living.”
“Eight, then, the highest I can offer.
You peasants are getting greedier day by day.”

She raises her hands, ten knotted roots,
ten question-marks of childhood and wisdom
“Do you know how many nights I stayed up
to stitch the soles? Do you see
my fingers? Do you see my eyes? See
my little brother waiting for a bowl
of noodles my shoes could buy?
His hunger does not lie.
My callouses do not lie.
We do not lie.”

I walk.
I’m not practicing the walk-away tactic
That works like magic.
I’m running from the mirror of her eyes.
“Stubborn girl, stubborn girl,”
I murmur to myself,
“It’s just a game, just a game.”
She chases, thrusts the shoes into my hands.
“You won, Miss. Take them for nine.
What’s nine yuan to you, a dollar twenty cents?
And what’s a yuan, less than a dime?
Would you even bother to pick it up from the street?”
I put away my victory in a trunk,
never give it a second thought
until I’m pulled out of the line
at Minneapolis custom, maggot fingers
prodding socks, underwear, wrapped gifts,
and there it is—my bargain
red and loud like thunderclaps:
“You saved a dime, fool,
but lost your soul.”