Treaty

You owe me five more minutes
ripening by the vines out back,
sixty more seconds for the dew
to slide off the tomato’s skin.
And I owe you the time of day,
the shadow on the sundial
pointed northward since the trees
had grown too thick overhead.

You owe me two more breaths
sucked slow from the straw,
dipped in iced tea and apple juleps,
in the back of my throat while soda
fizzed in my nose. I owe you three
more words and eighteen more
seconds of grief. You owe me
something to grieve for, something
to wrap around the grasshopper’s leg,
naivety, one more week of childhood.

Give me the fish in the tank and I’ll
pull the thorns from your hands
and the open window in the morning.
You owe me the tickets to Newport,
each gallon of gasoline burned. And I
owe you every second of finger-painted
play and every page I ever read.
I owe you the ink in my heart,
but all you owe is the paint
in your lungs. You owe me color.
And I’ll give you all the rest.

©Jordyn Rhorer 2010