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Milkmaid.

 white froth overnight on bare ground brown leaves no yellow bus on
the snow-slicked road so I could help my father deliver the mail his
other job begin at six finish at two then farm
 my part was laboring through the drifts toward the red flag the
widow's flag meant dried-apple pies fried pockets of fruit to
sweeten
his usual bitter thermos his usual two sandwiches one butter sliced in a
slab the peasant's cheese one meat maybe headcheese the leftover
parts of pig
snow-days I wore his fishing boots rolled at my waist I waded to the
metal box put something in took something out I still believe getting
the mail is the best part of the day my beloved
disagrees he says he has enough bad news but what about finding among
the trash a piece of smooth beach glass today a postcard a
milkmaid's royal blue emphatic apron
not dulled by many washings not stained by milk or mud the blue
Vermeer's ennoblement he lets her pour a pure white stream from the
lip of the pitcher into the earthbrown bowl
what's rich has been set aside for butter or cheese what's
left enough to soften the week's stale bread a peasant's
Sunday supper Milk Soup my father's favorite 
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Title Annotation:ten poems
Author:Voigt, Ellen Bryant
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jul 1, 2011
Words:258
Previous Article:Birch.
Next Article:Noble Dog.
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