Judy Blume is psychic

For weeks those words met

me at bus stops, on clothes

rails in shops, soap opera

credits rolled them out to me.

Fog, a bovine ornament sat

at my temples, stubborn.

The surely-male baby rolled

in my deep, disappointing,

satisfying Ma with his surely-brown eyes.

A week before nature conferred,

Fog deferred, brain to belly, readying. Words

unfurled, Eastern, Yiddish. Sheyn meydele.

Brain flowers commanded a girl child,

Oval basalt orbs, perfect

cognizance, she knew

Ma a thousand, a million.

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