Did you just call me your mother?

Out loud, where I can hear you!

Do you even know what that means?

It means I formed you out of myself,

Not a metaphor.

I gave you pieces of myself to eat when you were small,

You were always hungry,

Always fighting your brother for the last bite,

stealing off your sister's plate,

You never grew out of that.

If you're going to look me in the eye,

Maybe next to a river, under a tree,

And say I'm your mother,

You'd better know what you're saying.

It's very well to call me your kind mother when I give you a bird with bright plumage,

Or let you plunge your hands into loamy ground.

It's easy to call me your angry mother, monstrous mother, when I've had enough,

And shake and tumble and break apart and send you reeling.

But call me your mother with a straight face once you've learned to hold my love for you gently,

Don't break it.

Once you've learned to walk in the shade I've given you and not wonder what I would look like torn to pieces and filled to the brim with your ambition,

Then you can call me Mother and I will believe you.