"You're not my child at all," is what she said,
She scowled at me, then hissed, "You're devil's spawn."
She sees the horns protruding from my head:
Her child, conceived a month before she wed,
How ruefully she recollects that dawn
When lark, so cruel, left lovers divided;
Her handsome Romeo has long since gone,
He's middle-aged now, fat--and mows the lawn.
I never turned their water into wine
I never restored sight unto the blind
I never tempted anyone with fruit
I never warbled, never strummed a lute
Nor questioned their ill-fated, star-crossed love;
My mother never saw me as a dove.