Flush out of Kaiser Medical, 

I’m a single mother 

with Bluejay’s cerulean clothed body

a twin to the sky’s wavelength blue.

 

On a Geary Boulevard block,

a man fresh from the hospital 

in dark denim jeans 

blurts out words that cut,

 

“your son is so cute!” “I have a daughter 

and Bluejay’s XX chromosomes 

mirror each other 

like my delivery room reflection.”

 

“You’re hysterical. She must wear pink! 

I’ll tape my pink 

invoice form to her chest.”

 

I step away across gray concrete,

drive home on a park-lined 

San Francisco street. Hours later

under a baby pink sun, I dress Bluejay

in sapphire blue cotton.

 

At Trader Joe’s on Geary and Masonic, 

Bluejay sleeps in a stroller 

up and down winding aisles. 

 

Surrounded by colored fruit,

a woman in a shocking 

pink dress stops us short.

 

“Your son is so adorable!” “I have a daughter

and Bluejay’s XX chromosomes 

sprout anew on their tree of female growth.”

 

“You have a brain hemorrhage. 

She must wear pink! I’ll squeeze a grapefruit’s 

pink juices on her.” In a maternal flight, 

I flee from this dripping sting. 

 

At Ace Hardware on 2nd and Geary,

I look left, look right

in the paint aisle’s color envelopment

for the perfect blue

to paint Bluejay’s bedroom.

 

We rush past

the concentration of pink shades

where a childless heterosexual couple

brushstrokes toward us. 

 

“Your son is so precious!” “I have a daughter 

and Bluejay’s XX chromosomes 

jointly sweep across their canvas.” 

“You’re having a stroke.

Do you need help? You need help.” 

 

While the wife pins me back,

the husband pries open a can

of Baker-Miller pink, douses Bluejay

awake and wailing in pink engulfment.

 

“Now to pay for our Gender 

Correction Service, we’ll accept

one simple payment

of your next born child.” 

 

Originally published in Viewless Wings Poetry Podcast (September 5th, 2023)