Free Trade agreement

A transformative meditation practice, tonglen is sometimes referred to as an exchange of self with other.

I.

What is a handshake but a border crossing? Give and take, tit for tat, scratch my back. Your drugs for my guns. Trigger to temple, the ski mask asks: ¿plata o plomo? “Silver or lead?” means money or a bullet to the head. To be (as in “alive”) is a linking verb while negotiation is excuse for relation. You insult them if you pay asking. Everyone loves a bargain, but don’t strike one like it’s a piñata.

II.

The Texas businessman says to the Minister of Transportation visiting from (        ), “See that highway? Ten percent of it right here,” he boasts patting his breast pocket. Two years later, the Texan travels to his foreign friend’s country. The Minister says, “See that bridge over there?” “No,” squints the Texan. “One hundred percent right here,” the Minister beams, patting the pocket of his (        ). Quid pro whoa, thinks the Texan, that’s a bridge too far.

III.

A compromise spans two shores. Two lanes—one for coming, one for going—suspended over a body of water. Call the body “yielding,” even as it churns. Somebody compromised is one who lives in suspense. When one partner peddles withholding, what is the balance of trade?

IV.

On a beach so far from God and so close to the U.S., the Mexican masseur confides he saw Jesus “as close as that palm tree,” and knows Coke’s secret ingredient. In our jellied bliss, we don’t dismiss him. If the red and white cans contain the blood of children, so does the green flesh on my toast, the guac on your chip. Blood diamonds, blood avocados—these are metaphors. Like pounding money over stones in a dirty river.

V.

Metaphors can seem so . . . transactional, language doing business, swapping currency. But what if exchange is just a cover for change? Nothing is lost, everything is transformed. Then, give me a bucket brimming with blood to ferry across the river. I promise not to spill a drop, and when I reach the other side, I’ll feed you what has turned viscous, golden, sweet.

VI.

Give and take, a marriage makes. Our bodies draw a heart in the middle of the bed: nose-to-nose, curved spines, a meeting of toes. But before long, I turn away to the cool edge where sleep awaits, and I don’t have to inhale you. How many breaths have we traded? How much of me in you and you in me? We freely disagree. Call the body “yielding.” Still, we churn.