Onion Paper

She had sex in the afternoon. Habit kept
order, swept the floors, ironed the pillowcases,
kept the light on and made her death little by little.
My mother kept her cup of gin nearby.

Five carbon copies on thin-skinned
onion paper, with her old Olivetti
listening to Louis Armstrong─
she used to type late night love epistles.
Come on, give me umbrella wings and let me strut along
down Bourbon Street, she used to exclaim.

Her smoker’s smile turned toward the fading blaze,
waiting for her children, oh, when the saints go marching,
let them love her gin-puffed face.

Don’t wake her from the photograph.
She is a woman asleep, the light over a child’s crib.
Don’t wake her.

Cheryl Heineman graduated in December, 2017 with a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. She also has a master’s degree in Jungian Psychology and has published four collections of poetry: Just Getting Started, something to hold onto, It’s Easy to Kiss a Stranger on a Moving Train, and Future Comings.