for Nan
You placed an ad in the Boston Globe
I moved in
My job as a secretary
your vocation as an artist
The door to your room
Lucy
I read your palm and saw
you had no lifeline.
your Modigliani neck
your auburn hair that tumbled
into questions marks down your back.
Your quiet anger
That day you called me at work
just because I was going to Bermuda
leaving you alone for two weeks.
you overdosed on Thorazine
then slashed your wrists
with an X-Acto knife
best
I never wanted to live on Beacon Hill
It was seedy and too low rent for me
and was happy
was fulfilling,
profitable.
was never closed.
We sat side by side watching I Love
You laughed like a wind-up doll.
I wasn’t shocked when
You told me I was your lifeline.
I never envied
You didn’t interrogate me
when I stayed out all night.
didn’t frighten me
I never slept with a knife under my
pillow
You told me it wasn’t my fault
That day, you thanked me for saving
your life. After all, we were the
of friends. We understood each other
perfectly.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 4.
Born in Massachusetts, Margaret Chula has traveled overland through Asia, lived in England and Japan, and now makes her home on the Portland skyline. She has published fourteen collections of poetry including, most recently, Weeding the Labyrinth. Her haibun memoir, Firefly Lanterns: Twelve Years in Kyoto, was awarded a 2022 NYC Big Book Award in Multicultural Nonfiction. Maggie has given readings and lead workshops at haiku conferences throughout the United States, as well as in Poland, Canada, and Japan. She has also served as president of the Tanka Society of America, Poet Laureate for Friends of Chamber Music, and on the Advisory Board for the Center for Japanese Studies at Portland State University.
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