Caitlynn Cummings has an MSc in Creative Writing from the University of Edinburgh and writes poetry, non-fiction, fiction, and drama. She is the owner of the travel consultancy DOP Italian Travel and has worked for many Canadian literary organizations, including the Calgary Distinguished Writers Program, filling Station magazine, and Canadian Creative Writers and Writing Programs. Chapbooks of her short fiction include Mezzo Millimetro and Chloe. Her work can also be found in CV2, New Writing Scotland, Italy Segreta, Women in Clothes, This Magazine, Alberta Views, The Calgary Project, dead (g)end(er), Cordite Poetry Review, Glass Buffalo, and ditch and on permanent display at the new Calgary Public Library. You can find her weeding, writing, and raising the fifth generation on her Albertan family farm. Caitlynn is currently at work on a poetry collection about gardening and early motherhood. Follow her exploits in sauerkraut and metaphor on Instagram.
“‘Baffins’ replies to Lorna Crozier’s poetry collection Small Mechanics (2011).”
“I want a poet who goes outside,
who knows the small mechanics
of the clothespin and the muddy boot.”
— Lorna Crozier, Small Mechanics
Lorna, Lorna, it’s me!
I’m your poet.
I slip on my mother’s rubber boots
(I’ve never bought my own)
she’s dead now
met one of my three children
had six months with her
bought her booties with white lace bows.
I remember my dad’s bootprints
him tramping down the snow drifts
blazing a trail for my little legs
praising my rosy cheeks
after a play session in the cold.
A devotee of au naturel
the only make-up he’d allow
was that brumal blush
and maybe
hoar frost mascara.
I’d wipe my wet hands
on his blue jeans
no towels in the pumphouse
where we stored potatoes
in burlap sacks under a board
below the cement floor
my least favourite task
so creepy
but I remember those jeans
wiping palms then backs
leaning against his legs
believing they’d always be there.
His boots were dark green
my husband wears them now
me in my mom’s
him in my dad’s
playing parental roles
imitating what we loved
praying to God we don’t repeat
what injured us.
