Qua Literary and Fine Arts Magazine, Winter 2022

What Dustin Begets
PRISCILLA ATKINS
Dustin’s obit begets daughter
Grace. Grace, fourteen, begets
her mother Holly (they share
Holly’s last name). Tricky
to track Holly (Spokeo doesn’t
know “Zoe” goes by “Holly”).
Because I’ve fallen for Dustin—
thirty-four, mop of bangs,
brown eyes that’ve seen light
from the bottom of things—
I’m predisposed to dis Holly.
(Why? She and Dustin are
obviously no longer together.)
(Hmm: were they ever?)
(Long enough to make Grace!)
But once Holly and I “meet”
(face-to-facebook) I fall for
impish autodidact Holly and her
begettings. Hard work. Sweet
friends. Six years ago she lost
infant twins. The way she grieves—
celebrates. Here, her pal Matthew
(deceased):
I made you fried tofu several
times a decade-ish ago in 2008
when we were working on the
Alice White wine rainbow display
when I lived on Neil. Those were
some of the best times of my life.
Friend, I will miss you forever.
So now we add improv Matthew
(Second City trained) to our trove.
Can’t resist: Click—Matt, you’re
it:
The crowd seemed to like my
set last night. Wish I would have
filmed it. It was all about telling
the jokes that I’m not supposed
to tell because I’m a straight
male. In our current climate
I’m almost only “allowed” to
tell dick jokes, specifically
small dick jokes, and how that
sucks because it keeps me
from trying to understand what
it is to be every type of human.
All that, hidden under a bunch
of dick jokes.
Dustin, Holly, Matthew—I love
this whole tribe. Holly eats tofu,
laughs where I do. June 6, Dustin’s
last (and most verbose) post lets
loose after George Floyd’s murder:
I’ve been on facebook all day
and seen some things, and
have some stuff to say, I know
it’s not going to fix anything
but half you fuckers need to
stop speaking for people
the other half of you need to
stop “well what about when
this person did this where
were you” aka just shut the
fuck up and listen. Let people
mourn and have their time
when shit like this happens.
Two days later . . . gone. Don’t
know the details. (Weeks old
repartee r.e. trying to lose weight
and depression is too risky to
parse.) Scrolling backwards
through time, Dustin, who
worked out West, then Vermont,
is Greyhounding it (beloved dog
in tow!) home to central Illinois.
Christmas with Grace at Holly’s
Grandma Zoe’s (ah, Holly, here’s
your first name). Grace, Dustin,
Grandma Zoe, Holly—Matthew—
people who’ve never met—all
of us in a crisscross of molecules.
Dear Dustin, I hereby beget you.
a tuft of fur
JACOB BLUMNER
a tuft of fur
all that remains
of a story
16 | Poetry Poetry | 17