Long Roommates Poems
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(a story in senryu stanzas)
I get migraines.
- lucky me - glare can set me
off within seconds.
I always have a
pair of dark, polarized shades
with me - it’s a quirk.
When I was fourteen,
we lived in Shenzhen, China
very near Macau.
Macau, China, the
“Las Vegas” of Asia, is
the home of glare.
The Ritz-Carlton, has
a glittering galaxy
of bright chandeliers.
Those chandeliers move,
their silhouettes change shape - just
stab me with a spork.
Did I mention the
Mirrors? Every wall served to
magnify the light.
“You look awful,” my
mom said - our two week booking
became ten minutes.
“I just need sunnies,
those would work,” *then I gasped*
“I’ll look glamorous!”
We changed hotels, but
what a small world - my roommate
Leong grew up there.
We could have passed in
the yè shì as teenagers
and now we're roommates.
.
.
sunnies = sunglasses (UK slang)
yè shì = night market (simplified Chinese)
Everyone’s getting covid. It’s become serious.
And pretty much everyone here is triple vaxxed.
1 in 17 at Yale have it now. One of my roommates got it.
I’m hoping I get it - if I get it - before finals.
‘cause I doubt Yale professors would give extensions.
“You’re dying? Did you not read the syllabus? NO extensions”
“What were you like as a kid?“ He asked.
Umm, “naïve..,” “boyish.. obsessive.” I answered, thoughtfully.
And how would you describe yourself now? He follows-up.
Umm, “less naïve..” “boyish.. obsessive.,” we laughed.
2006: Taylor Swift releases her first album. I was three years old.
I grew up with her - every breakup, every turns-out-gay boyfriend.
She’s brilliant - don’t get me wrong - no doubt in the universe,
but she’s not the underdog any more - not an outsider - she’s FAB rich,
royalty, no, better than royalty. And she has the Taylor army.
Why is she always threatening physical violence?
Taylor is gay and straight, she’s republican, rageful, erotic and complex.
And I want to believe she actually ran someone down aka a Gatsby
She’s the Alexander Pope of our generation.
I’m just questioning the Taylor Swift breakup-industrial-complex.
Is Pete Davidson hot? I can’t decide.
He looks sort of gangly and awkward.
He’s dating Kim Kardashian.
I mean it’s not like Kanye is hot.
She’s obviously not looking for THAT.
After father passed away I moved in with my mom,
she needed me but she didn't know it;
at first we were like roommates,
then, things began to change.
Little things, confusion, forgetfulness, quietness,
she would ask me odd questions;
like did she ever have children,
and how do I write my name.
Things were going downhill rapidly for my mom,
then, she had a fall in the house;
and had a bleed in her head,
putting her in a comma.
She was too weak for surgery and I had to let go,
I stayed by her bedside weeping;
I stayed and stayed waiting,
until her last sigh.
________________________
August 25, 2021
Poetry/Verse/Last Sigh
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1384-402-25
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Theme and Title chosen - Last Sigh
Written for the Standard contest, This or That Vol. 6
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Judged 09/08/2021
the day the doctor told me you were dying
mother, I was so afraid, unsure and frightened
unclear of what to do and so I listened to others
I should have brought you home to die
but I did not do that, no I didn't
you could have been at home with me at your side
in your own bed with your purring sweet cat
and soothing music and a view of azure blue sky
that cat waited and searched for you, mom
for months and months and months
when you got sick I did not hesitate to move home
we were like happy roommates in the beginning
then ever so slowly I was doing all the banking
the groceries, the cooking, while still working
I became your mother over time
but I did not mind one moment of that journey
we talked and talked and buried all the anger
I would have done anything for you, even given my life
because you were the one person who loved
me, without reserve, totally and completely
and when the end came, mom, I failed you bitterly
I should have brought you home to die, I know now
so I am begging for 'forgiveness' from you and from God
this pain, a knife in my heart every day, I breathe
but my forgiveness will never come, never ever
"oh, the tears, the tears . . . "
______________________________________
February 16, 2015
Poetry/Narrative/"oh, the tears, the tears"
Copyright Protected, ID 02-641-230-16
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Forgiveness,
sponsor, Rob Carmack, Judged 03/2015
Eighth place
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid, seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
.
Slang
deck = cool
gillespie = hipster
meow = I want
confuddled = confused and befuddled
derp = anything and everything
Last weekend was “Parent’s” weekend at Yale. A time when parents are formally invited to visit. They have receptions and other events - but no potato-sack races (which is disappointing). My parents couldn’t come, they’ve never come to parent’s weekend, but Leong’s parents came again, from Macao, China, a 16,060-mile round trip.
There was a time when boys could tank my self-confidence with a word. When the male gaze seemed overpowering. I’d felt constantly evaluated - but I’ve evolved - somewhat. We’re going to a party. Lisa, Leong, Sunny, Anna and I - we’ve got our shine on and we’re drawing looks. Well, ok, Lisa’s drawing looks and I’m in the general frame.
Lisa sneezed, “The air quality’s bad tonight,” she announced, wiping her nose with a Kleenex.
“I don’t have any allergies,” I bragged. “Me neither,” Leong added.
“If you can breathe the air in China,” I said, “You’re golden.”
Leong laughed “Tài zhenshí liao,” (Too true!) She agreed.
As we left the more street-lit part of the path, the moon, wandering in and out of the clouds, created moving shadows that peopled the darkness with phantoms. Was that impression the paranoia of fatigue? I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Or maybe it’s October and Halloween’s just around the corner.
I was walking in the rear, nestled in the mingled scents of my roommates' perfumes that, like rare blossoms, enchanted and excited the child in me. I wasn’t paying attention, and I stubbed my toe on a misaligned sidewalk tile. Don’t you hate the gap between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain?
So, I’m home for winter break
and trying not to break
because I thought I could break away from my problems, my chains—
but my wrists break instead of the shackles.
I don’t want to be home—
I came back, and no one was home.
Just like the week before,
and the month before,
and the year before.
And when I think more,
I can’t remember the last time anyone was home.
I’m starting to think
that I don’t have any home mates.
Not housemates, not roommates—
they’re here, but they aren’t home.
Because home to me isn’t here.
It’s somewhere between love and fear,
somewhere between far and near,
somewhere I don’t have to hear from any of you—
about how I’m overreacting
and unprepared
and indecisive
and just, scared.
I know that.
That’s why I bought new bedding and towels and hangers.
That’s why I spent four months with so-called world changers—
just to feel like I’m no longer in danger.
The people in this house can’t see
I’m building a home somewhere else.
That’s why I came home and didn’t see them anywhere.
Because most days, home is wherever they’re not.
But I need them like water—
only, I can’t swim.
I’ll die with them and without them.
I had a semester-long break.
It’s May 18th, 2022. I’m poised, alone, heart pounding, in front of my laptop, waiting for courage, my finger hovering over the return key, like a child hoping the timing of my keystroke will bring me luck.
I took this summer off - which drove my mom absolutely CrAzY. “You CAN’T!” she’d said last month, only to be overruled by my Grandmère. Now I’m home for summer break and tonight she’s flush with exasperation.
“You should have applied for a dean’s fellowship,” she said, her voice rising as she rubs her hands together, as if scrubbing for an operating room procedure, “and a summer research position!” She’s practically twirling with suppressed emotion.
I get why she’s upset. She only goes “deep end” when she's worried about my future. She knows what’s needed to get a medical school slot in 2025 like other moms know their favorite recipe - after all, she’s done this twice before.
Leong’s upstairs, avoiding this family scene. When I described my family expectations as “hustle culture,” to my roommates, they all understood - we’re that much alike.
Step (my stepfather) is trying to de-escalate and calm us (her) down. “Look,” he says, holding up his hands like someone talking down a gunman, “NEXT summer she’ll buckle down, get in more volunteer hours and get a dean’s research fellowship” he says, sliding his eyes to me. I nod “ok” almost imperceptibly. “It’s ok to start grinding sophomore year - that’s what I did.”
OOOO! She turned to him and if looks could kill, he would have exploded like someone in a Tarantino movie.
By some psychic grace my Grandmère chose that moment to call. Step and I fled the den like it were on fire, going our separate ways to halve the chance of being followed.
In my dark room, lit only by the light of my MacBook, a quiver runs through me, and I finally press return. My grades for Spring semester - and Freshman year come up. My eyes water and I relax back against my chair when I see “Dean's List.”
I smile to myself, and slowly, fiercely I clench my fist with a “YESS!" As I postulate my victorious reprieve.
With crimson spots on our fingertips
Blood started by a sharp pin prick
We mixed our blood in the tree house out back
And solemnly sealed our best friends pact
Two small boys at the young age of ten
Making a pledge we would honor time and time again
A bond that would hold for over sixty years
Helping each other through the turmoil and tears
When you broke your arm, I carried your schoolbooks
You took the blame for the piece of candy I took
We stood up together against the bully at school
I helped you learn to swim in the neighborhood pool
I practiced your lines for the high school play part
You helped me cope with my first broken heart
You didn’t live in the Honor’s House so we could be roommates
We always fixed each other up so we could double date
We were each other’s best men on our wedding days
And Godfathers for the children that came our way
You helped me through some financial times that were tough
I provided moral support when your divorce got rough
You sat up with me all night when my wife passed away
I helped you come to terms with your diagnosis that day
I watched you pass peacefully into the cold, dark night
And I know I will join you later when the time is right
With crimson spots on our fingertips
Blood started by a sharp pin prick
We mixed our blood in the tree house out back
And solemnly sealed our best friends pact
There’s a farmers market near campus.
A young couple has a pizza oven on a trailer.
They make a breakfast pizza - bacon, mozzarella
some egg and green peppers. It’s SO crispy and delicious.
ALL I had to do this morning was say “breakfast pizza!”
and six of us were ready to head out fifteen minutes later.
Let’s wax poetic, shall we?
There are some young ladies who live in a dorm
sometimes it seems like they only have studies
but once and a while on a Saturday or Sunday
if we have our druthers, we get out, in swarm
and find ourselves some pizza-like brekkie.
.
.
Songs for this:
PIZZA by Oohyo
Le Breakfast Club de Paris by Gabrielle Chiararo