My Mother is My Son

Once I was born, I looked up and saw my son: he had just given birth to me — shot me out like a rifle. Straightway I began to teach him to be a good mother, because, since I was his father, I felt a responsibility to rear him up correctly (despite the fact that he had birthed me). It was a tough situation, but I did not give up. I said to myself: “Just because I’m the progenitor of this lad who is my mother, this doesn’t relieve me of the basic duties of infanthood.” So I climbed up the ropes and began to nurse. 

To review: this fine fellow here is my mom, and I am his son. I cannot explain how this happened; for I’m not a single year old yet. All I know is that I must take care of my child, even though he’s currently swaddling me; I must act as a good parent and protect him from harm. As he holds me in his motherly arms while I give suck, I think to myself: “What a miraculous world we inhabit; for I am his seed, and he is my seed. Our family tree grew right into its own trunk; now there’s no telling branches from roots. It’s like that snake that ate itself. But this breastmilk is nourishing; my eyelids are feeling heavy…” Then I drift into sleep and dream of making love to a bear.