Vermont Cold
My father was fostered out at eight,
A farm worker, milking cows by hand
In the cold cracks
Of mornings and dusks.
They watched every bite
And valued the horses more
Though he was whipped equally well.
He swallowed the silence
And saved for a getaway bike.
Simply pedaled away
And someone kinder took him in.
He forgave the ill mother,
Eight brothers and sisters,
The father with a bottle,
Potato soup and greens
Against the hard labor.
He has only a little bitter streak,
From the meanness,
It’s very thin though,
Like a wavy line of rusty iron
Through gold.
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