She was older than the dust around the sun

that eventually formed the planets,

nebulous, chaotic, like a dancer intoxicated

by an urgent and irrepressible creative thrust.

I am the result of a kind of condensation,

she said, particles coming together, coalescing;

like you, perhaps, like the fortuitous union

of your haploidal cells.

That makes you

Mother of Everything, I declared,

really delighted by the idea.

And you’re really a schmuck, she said.

You’re like all those others: alleged scientists,  journalists

who come by, snooping,

and those psychologically oriented tadpoles

who think they’ve got all the patents on Truth,

sticking their noses in

to where they don’t belong.

So that’s where I backed off. Right then,

and she went away,

leaving her drink on the bar.