Oh, to be a mother with a baby to my chest,
to grow a son or daughter from the fertile Midwest.
When the weeds have wrapped around the ways I thought I knew the best, they'll grow a little crooked, grow up crooked like the rest.
Marilyn you had the look of Jesus' face, his holy whisper and the blood of a saint.
You showed my momma how to raise us straight, still I curse at the earth and I cry when it shakes.
Oh, to have a lover with his hand upon my back, to stay beneath the covers when the thunder cracks.
When the hours steal my beauty and our bones return to dust, will our ghosts still intertwine behind the fortress of our love?
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