Blue Life

It’s a boy, the nurse declares,

an augury to only end in pain.

She points to to the pixelated penis

in the blurry Rorschach’s sonogram.

It’s a boy, the mother says

with pride, buying periwinkle pajamas.

The father imagines teaching his son

to score touchdowns, to change a tire.

It’s a boy, the banners cheer,

and blue is everywhere:

streamers, balloons, paper cups,

the eyes of the pink fetus still coiled inside.

It’s a boy  — 

the first words the newborn hears.

As the doctor ruptures the silence,

baby babble curdles to a wail.

With the ink still wet (sex: M),

mother, father, and child go home,

without the least suspicion

that the doctor may be wrong.

They tuck their treasure

beneath blue blankets

in a blue nursery –

weighed down beneath deep-blue life.