Author Archives: Whitney Cruikshank

Realizations

Realizations

We braid now. We are finding the time. Like my mom braided for me on Friday nights when she’d race home from the city after five days apart. Like she’d do for me Sunday mornings before church, even if we were running late. I hated the braids, actually. Hated the hurt of it all. I… Read more

Last week

Last week

I couldn’t write last week because of all the dripping. From my eyes, from my breasts. As theirs did. Except I had a change of clothes and my baby to soothe me and mine. I still had my dignity. I couldn’t speak last week because of all the confusion. From my head, from my heart.… Read more

Double Yolks

Double Yolks

The baby hums as he sleeps and he smiles as he dreams, while my mind races with preparation for the day to come- there is always so much. I’m running late again as I race the highway, but the ditches are a visual reprieve. Though boggy, like my sleep-deprived brain, they are accentuated by purple… Read more

Wild One

Wild One

Even your eyes are wilder. Dark green at the edges, golden green near the inner core. Yours are larger than your sister or brother’s blues. More excitable, more curious. You and yours are more eager. Your eyes don’t speak worry. All your eyes concern themselves with is finding the source to achieve your daily chocolate… Read more

Dutch Tulip Red

Dutch Tulip Red

I’ve watched a woman’s toes in labour enough to know. Enough to know when she’s reaching her limit, enough to know when the true labouring of labour has begun. There are the toes that curl into tight, whitened balls, or those toes that stretch, splayed further apart than they have ever gone before, looking to… Read more

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