Qing Zhen Triangle Market

Qing Zhen Triangle Market

                By Marianna/Bailing

Walking through the Triangle in Qing Zhen

Is food for my eyes.

But my feet step carefully now,

Knowing that the tiles are loose

And that the rains have been trapped beneath them.

This is becoming familiar ground

And I find I can look up

As well as down

At the same time.

A learned skill for me.

If I look down only,

I miss most of Qing Zhen.

There is a path of raised tile

Ziggagging through all of Guizhou Province.

Laid down rectangle by rectangle

To make contact with the tip of the blind one’s cane.

I have seen blind musicians only in the Town Center,

Singing heart clench songs as the sun sets.

Never have I seen anyone sightless follow these tiles,

Ferreting their way through town.

But the tiles are there, nonetheless.

Just in case.

Most of the fruits and vegetables

Are offered by women,

Women sitting close to the ground.

Or by men on their haunches, perched,

Waiting for a sale. 

I want to know the name of everything.

The eggplants are cylindrical and glow in the evening light.

The garlic overflows baskets.

And the bitter mellow beg to be touched,

Craggy beneath my fingers.

We buy boiled potatoes

Which the seller places, one by one,

In a small envelope of a bag. 

She points to the la, the brick red bag of pepper spice,

And then smiles and laughs when we nod yes.

We eat the potatoes, one by one, with a short wooden stick.

People watch us, waiting for us to cough the peppers

Up our unsuspecting throats.

But we are people of the spice,

And the people of Qing Zhen produce their cell phones,

Take photos of the Westerners devouring la

To share with their family when they return home.

We are foreigners in a place that Westerners don’t visit.

This town is unknown to tourist guides,

To the pages of The Lonely Planet.

One night, a child shouted “bai”

And pointed at my hair.

White hair, she was telling me.

And she wanted to touch it, never having seen

Such colorless hair.

Her fingers were soft and curious

As she touched the hair around my face and shoulders.

One woman follows us all around the market.

She takes control of our steps, steering us to

The noodle section of the market.

Her words are emphatic and stretched out

Like the noodles being pulled and twisted.

We are Meiguoren, people of America,

And we are her new friends.

From everyone she introduces us to,

“Welcome to China.”

And we are home…

                                              July 2014