When My Father Mounted My Mother by Grant Guy

when my father mounted my mother
it was domestic rape
but she was gonna give him a son
come hell / high water
goddamn you you bitch

i was to be the replacement son
you know for the one that died

i never became the replacement son
i was a disappointment

i dont think my dead brother
wld have matched up to my fathers idea of a son
both the living & dead wld disappoint the old man
he went out & found another woman to plant his seed in
& she gave him a son
but my mother made damn sure
my father wld never see his son
come hell or high water
goddamn you you bastard
the husband & the wife
hated each other more than god
& the devil hated each other
& my dead brother
& the brother i never met

& i
paid the price of admission

Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. Former artistic director of Adhere + Deny. His writings have been published in Canada, the United States and England. He has three books published; Open Fragments, On the Bright Side of Down and Bus Stop Bus Stop. He was the 2004 recipient of the Manitoba Arts Council’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the Winnipeg Arts Council’s Making A Difference Award.


One thought on “When My Father Mounted My Mother by Grant Guy

  1. Reblogged this on Litterbox Riot and commented:
    I used to have a friend I’d known for over 30 years. Our birthdays we 4 days apart and in 2008 she invited herself & her now ex-husband to visit me & my husband at the beach for our birthday weekend. Her mom bought her a birthday cake, which she brought with her. Her husband put that butter-cream frosting cake in the truck of their car for an 8 hour drive from Pittsburgh to Ocean City in August. (This is the same man who wouldn’t turn the air-conditioning on in the car for a 10-minute drive to his daughters graduation party on a hot humid day in June. We were in the backseat with a bunch of helium-filled balloons, and with the windows down, they got all knotted up. Then, at the rec center, his dum’ass family laughed at me for trying to untangle them so they’d look nice. He doesn’t like to use the A/C because it uses up to much gas. So… yeah.)

    But I digress. So, she shows up with the birthday cake her 76-year old mom bought her for her 41st birthday, and she proceeds to bitch and moan about how she was pissed off at her mother for getting the cake at Foodland when she told her to get it at Giant Eagle.

    Think about that as you read this poem. I don’t know why, but that memory is what came to my mind as this poem gutted me like a dying matador at a bloody bullfight.

    I never liked her petty bullshit, especially toward her mom when I’d lost mine, and would love it if she could buy me a cake from anywhere. At my Mom’s funeral, she leaned into the casket in some melodramatic Lifetime moment and, to the embalmed remains of the woman who’d been like her second mom when we were 13, she whispered, “I’ll take care of her.” I don’t know if she meant for me to hear it (she did), but she whispered loudly enough for me to…

    “I’ll take care of her.” This is what she said to the woman who, when they were both flying home to Pittsburgh from LAX after visiting me at the same time in 1993, my then 63-year old Mom had a direct, while my ex-friend had 3 or 4 stops on hers. Since she was travelling alone and was nervous about the flight, my Mom exchanged her earlier great flight home for the later crappy flight home so she could keep her company. While we were standing at the gate trying to figure out how to kill some time, the person at the airline counter made an announcement for stand-by passengers that a seat had become available, and this friend ran over to the desk. And she took the ticket! My Mom’s ticket! She left my Mom to travel alone on that multi-stop flight and she took my Mom’s direct-flight. I should have never spoken to her after that. That’s something I regret.

    …the epilogue to the “I’ll take care of her” story being that when I got back to California after the funeral and all, my life was pretty upside-down and I had a lot to deal with. Because I had so much overwhelming stuff going on, I didn’t call her for a month… and she sent me a mean letter saying she was sick of not hearing from me and she didn’t appreciate being ignored. That was ’98 – ten years before the birthday cake invasion. I’m just a fucking sucker. I never learn. Between she and I, guess who’s the Catholic and whose the atheist. Who’s the liberal who voted for Obama, and who’s the conservative republican who called W. her “boyfriend.”

    Oh yeah, and the cake? It gave us the trots. We were sick all night. That’s when she told me the cake had been in the trunk. After we’d eaten it and gotten sick. Butter-cream frosting for 8 hours in 100-degree heat.

    I haven’t spoken to her since 2010. I heard she got divorced, and then re-married some dude she met online, and now lives in Ohio.

    Funny, isn’t it? The things poetry can stir in one’s mind?

    (P.S. I’ve never re-blogged anything… I hope this works-or-whatever…)


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