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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s