Psalm 107

Praise you for that blanket.

Praise you for the stranger
who draped it over my mother,

a naked girl perched,
pregnant, in the snow. Praise you
for my father

who said he’d kill her
if she ran. And for my mother,
who didn’t run. Like a mannequin
or a stupid dog.

Praise you for her skin
the color of cold
jellyfish, her psalms
careening from her throat
to her belly, where your fingers—

praise your fingers—forged
my unformed body. Praise you
for my bloodline. For the savages
and the idiots, whom you love
the same. Thank you
for the bones you stacked in me

to brave this unsettling.

2 Responses to “Psalm 107”

  1. Kathleen Aponick

    I like this poem, too, for its emotional intensity. At first I thought that “you” referred to an unnamed god that allowed the forces of good to save your mother, save you. I think not naming the “you” lets us decide for ourselves, gives it mystery.

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