Wash hangs crooked on the line.
Peaches rot beneath the tree.
It's been a week since I could lift a finger,
a week since you put your hands on me.
Gal from church says men get to drinkin,
and you ain't to blame for what you done.
She promised that she'd pray for me
and told me to think about my son.
I had your baby in my belly
the day that I became your wife.
We didn't take no wedding pictures
cause the night before you'd blacked my eye.
The members of the congregation
filled the pews to watch us wed,
and none objected as my busted lips
struggled through my vows and said
Late that fall I had the baby,
and my boy, well, he wasn't right.
Doc says it must run in my family,
but I know it's cause you kicked me in my side.
When he was two years old I tried to run.
You caught us out in east Monroe.
That's the night you broke my arm and said,
"You know I'll never let you go."
Sheets are missing from the line.
There's fresh dirt beneath the old peach tree.
My back aches so I can barely moved,
but you ain't put your hands on me.
Gal from church says men take off.
Sometimes they just up and run.
A woman has to do whatever needs doing.
A woman has to take care of her son.