Work Text:
Poetic Justice
by J M Griffin
Author's disclaimer: I do not own them, nor much of anything. But they have taken up residence in my mind, so what can I do but write them?
Poetic Justice
by J. M. Griffin
The package came in the mail on Monday. Blair opened it with a grin on his face, seeing that it was from his mother. Inside was a goofy birthday card (no matter that his birthday had been three weeks ago last Tuesday) and a magnetic poetry kit, deluxe version. Jim had already left for work, and Blair didn't have a class until 12:30, so he immediately began creating with the tiny word blocks.
We are the music makers,
We are the dreamers of dreams,
We are the movers and shakers
of the world for ever, it seems.
(Arthur O'Shaughnessy)
Okay, it wasn't original, and he'd had to cheat on the "we s," but it seemed a fitting verse for the refrigerator of a Sentinel and his Guide. He'd have written more, but the phone rang and it was George Otway asking Blair to take his intro class, like, right now, and, since Blair owed the man more than one favor, he left in a hurry.
When he got back to the loft, it was way later than he'd intended, but his Monday night study group had really been "on." They'd spent hours comparing the social mores of gypsy groups; it had been a fascinating evening. Plus, Jim had called and said he would be on a stake out and, no, he didn't need his Guide, so Blair had no reason to be home on time anyway. He went to the fridge for a class of milk and found his poetic endeavor had been tampered with in his absence. It now read:
Today I have been happy. All the day
I held the memory of you, and wove its
laughter with the dancing...
(Rupert Brooke)
Blair stared at the words in bemusement. Jim had to have been the one to move the tiles to form the poem. Was it original, or some piece of something he'd read once? It was obviously unfinished. Blair grabbed up a slip of paper and jotted down the phrases. Tomorrow, he would look them up in "The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations" he had back at his office at the U. Now, he took a deep breath and, with a shaking index finger, quickly spliced together the first thing that came to his mind in response to Jim's poetry.
Where are you hid from me, beloved one
That I am seeking through the lonely world--
(John Hall Wheelcock)
He couldn't remember the rest of it, so, with a yawn, he headed for bed, forgetting to set his alarm. Which meant he woke up late and had to haul ass to make it to his 8:30 class. When he got home later that day, Jim was again missing from the loft. On stake out, Blair knew because, of course, Jim had called and left a message at his office. Blair went to the kitchen the moment he'd dropped his keys in the basket by the door. Not to get a glass of milk, but to read the fridge.
Sweet lips, there are songs about kisses now.
Looking backward are kisses of remembrance
Looking ahead are kisses to be wished-for.
(Carl Sandburg)
His eyes grew large as he read the poem. Blair didn't let himself stop to think before he began to move the words about, for if he did he might chicken out. He had a smile on his face as he worked.
You will come, with your strong, expressive arms,
A poise of the head no sculptor has caught
And nuances spoken with shoulder and neck
(Carl Sandburg)
He went to bed with the smile on his face, too. In the morning, Blair went straight to the refrigerator again.
It read:
I never knew any more beautiful than you:
I have hunted you under my thoughts,
I shall never find any
greater than you.
(Carl Sandburg)
He could hear Jim's soft snores in the room above him. He wrote quickly, moving the tiny tiles to his memory.
I have gone marking the atlas of your body
with crosses of fire.
My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide
In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.
(Pablo Neruda)
He shook inside as he wrote, wondering what he was doing. Unable to stop. He made coffee, after, and then left for the bakery downstairs. When he returned, Blair fumbled his keys, his hands trembled so. He must go inside and change the words; it was just a game and he'd gone too far.
Suddenly the door opened from within and a hand reached out to grasp Blair's cold, shaking ones. Jim pulled him inside. Pulled Blair close to his warm, bare chest. It was summer outside. It was summer inside Blair now, too. As he slipped his arms around his new lover's sculpted body, Blair found another bit of poetry, winding through his head.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
(William Shakespeare)
But he didn't smile or head to the fridge to write it out. He had better uses for his hands and mouth at the moment.
The End