In a world constantly weighing cost against consequence, Quid Pro Quo is no longer confined to courtrooms or contracts. It seeps into our relationships, language, hunger, politics, and silence. This poetic experiment dismantles the transactional nature of modern existence, exploring surreal exchanges in love, power, labor, and identity.
This is not a usual poetry. It’s an ode to unseen barters, unspoken debts, and the spirals we walk in the name of balance.
(for all the mouths that never ate but spoke of hunger)
---
Quid pro quo—
quid pro—crow
croaks in Latin,
q.v. the tongue
is not an organ of trust.
A tooth was traded for silence.
She wore the molar as a pendant—
“My truth,” she whispered,
but it glowed like stolen uranium.
---
I. Salt Contracts
The sea never signs
but takes flesh in kind.
Each wave, a signature of blood.
→ A boy offers a button to the tide.
← The tide returns a drowning.
Quid. (Latin: what?)
“What did I give up to be liked?”
“Your laugh.”
“When did I agree?”
“When you laughed less.”
Exchange is rarely declared,
only felt when something is missing.
---
II. Trousers of Power
Scene: inside a minister’s wardrobe.
Silk suits whisper
in offshore bank dialects.
Trade:
A vote for a throat.
A handshake for a spine.
A backroom candle for a blackout.
They called it a bill.
But it burned forests.
(Quid: the water you swallowed)
(Pro: the mouth that drowned you)
(Quo: this parliament of echoes)
---
III. Reverse Alchemy
She sells memories in jars—
saffron-tinged regrets,
teardrops filtered through nostalgia.
A man buys one marked “First Kiss, Unsent Letter.”
He pays with sleep.
“Quid pro quo,” she smiles.
“I’m wide awake now,” he murmurs,
insomnia blooming
in his iris like blue fire.
One dream: two prices.
Yours and mine.
---
IV. The Body is a Treaty
The girl tattoos her skin
with signatures of every lover
who said “forever” like a coupon code.
One promises stars.
She receives a streetlight
that flickers at midnight.
Another swears loyalty
and takes her silence
like a tollbooth fee.
Each kiss: a currency.
Each goodbye: tax deducted.
They never asked what she wanted.
She never said. That was the trade.
---
V. Kitchen Gods and Trade Deals
A grandmother boils lentils
in a pressure cooker of borrowed faith.
Every whistle: a prayer
to the god of fair exchange.
“May this hunger return as harvest.
May my labor return as love.”
The cooker bursts at dawn.
The only response:
steam on ceiling.
Love is not legal tender anymore.
---
VI. Animalia Capitalia
In the jungle of boardrooms,
gorillas wear ties,
hyenas invest in startups,
and deer design pitch decks
with trembling hooves.
One asks: “What do I need to give?”
Another grins: “Nothing. Just your tail.”
She leaves the meeting with
no tail, no job,
but a new title: Brand Evangelist.
Quid pro no.
---
VII. Algorithmic Intimacies
Scroll. Like. Send. React.
Offer yourself in pixels.
Receive silence in kbps.
A boy sends nudes
to feel seen.
She double-taps
but saves nothing.
Their chat history is
a graveyard of unsaid apologies.
[deleted message]
[typing…]
[gone]
Love in 1080p.
But no one’s watching.
---
VIII. Babel Contracts
In tongues,
we trade meanings.
She says “I miss you.”
He hears: “I need you.”
→ That’s not what she meant.
He replies: “I’m here.”
She translates: “But not enough.”
→ That’s not what he meant either.
They both smile.
Then walk away
with words that mean
nothing
and everything.
---
IX. Blood Markets
Auction at dusk—
Courage, opening bid: 2 sighs.
Truth, starting low: 1 betrayal.
Hope, sold to the man
with rusted eyes and nowhere to be.
A girl trades her name
for anonymity.
A child sells a drawing
for a sandwich.
Quid pro crumbs.
---
X. Ghost Commerce
The dead do not bargain.
But they leave invoices
in your dreams.
“Remember me,” says the face in your mirror.
“You forgot me first,” you reply.
The mirror cracks.
A shard falls,
reflecting your childhood.
You wake up owing something.
---
XI. Cosmic IOUs
The universe spins on
an axis of IOUs.
Sunlight for green.
Gravity for shape.
Death for life.
You were born
because someone died
just in time
to make room.
---
XII. Footnotes of the Soul
Each chapter in you
was ghostwritten
by someone who walked away.
They gave you fear.
You gave them forgiveness.
They never asked.
You still did.
---
XIII. The Unseen Ledger
The beggar gives his last blanket
to the dog.
The dog offers a growl
to the thief.
The thief returns the ring
to the widow.
The widow feeds the beggar
soup and memory.
No one writes it down.
But the balance sheet sings.
---
XIV. Conclusion Is a Lie
You want a moral?
Trade this poem for silence.
It’s the only currency I trust.
But remember—
Quid pro quo is never square.
It’s a spiral.
What you give returns
but never in the form you expect.
Sometimes it’s a poem.
Sometimes it’s a wound.
Sometimes it’s
just
you
left
alone
to decode
what the mirror meant
when it called you
whole.
Author’s Note
This poem was born from a question that wouldn’t leave me: What have I unknowingly traded for survival, for belonging, for comfort?
We often think of “quid pro quo” as a matter of law or diplomacy, but life itself is a ledger of exchanges. Some consensual, others coerced. Some tiny—like giving up sleep for love. Others massive—like trading silence for safety.
Writing this piece was my attempt to capture those invisible transactions. To make seen what often hides between the lines. I hope it resonates. Or unsettles. Or both.
—Jaideep
https://pebblegalaxy.blog
#Poetry #QuidProQuo #TransactionOfTheSoul #PebbleGalaxyOriginal #Mirror #JaideepWrites #BrokenMirrors
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