Lucas Wildner
Representations
Stacy,
baking was my escape
that first pandemic December.
Seattle’s Pacific Standard gloom
and isolation summoned
sentimental visions
of the Advent Jause
I was missing.
Every Sunday a candlelit wreath
on the coffee table,
joined by steaming mugs of frütchetee,
a platter of Vanillekipferl,
Husarenkrapfen, Lebkuchen,
Rumkugeln—all homemade
by my father, transformed
from the man who saved foil
in a drawer for a second or third use
into a baker in need
of another stick of butter,
another tin for the latest batch.
Nostalgic,
I was a good consumer.
The night the hand mixer arrived
my boyfriend and I
ate Husarenkrapfen on the couch.
They tasted like my father was about
to return from the kitchen
with a refilled platter,
like practice for the inevitable after.
They didn’t last a week.
*
You bought a kettle
to boil water the Austrian way.
A chopper
to chop onions Austrianly.
For an Erdäpfelsalat, I assume.
I’m stalling
because I don’t want to say
how I learned your name:
the Notice of settlement email
a year after you became
Class Representative
for all who believed in Mueller’s
Austrian Representations,
the red-white-red,
umlauted distractions
that allowed the company
to overcharge us
for European quality.
Suffering,
the attorneys called it—
the cooks and bakers tricked
by Chinese-made products,
who needed Austrian quality,
Old World magic in the kitchen.
I never told him. I knew
he would have scolded me—
it hadn’t been on sale.
But news of the settlement
almost made me reconsider.
$7.50 to make me whole.
It would have made his day.
Another Fraction
There were
years pretending
to read his birthday wishes,
handwriting as inscrutable as the German.
Silently you would count to eight
then Danke, Papa interrupted your smile.
The party could move on.
Didn’t need much German
to be grateful.
Decades later,
a first: in a card for Easter
addressed to you and your boyfriend,
you find your parents transformed,
twin territories held together
by boundary: Papa/Günter Mom/Mary.
That he can’t or won’t write Dad—
a joke possibly only to you,
one you feel guilty enjoying, but
isn’t this
what you wanted, a boyfriend
and a relationship with your parents
that don’t get in each other’s way?
Part of it is how he sounds in English,
I hope that a visit in Seattle is on my travel plans.
Part of it is the retreat, again, from German.
Another fraction subtracted.
You agree, the card is nice.
An attempt at gratitude.
Don’t need much at all.
Radetzky, Grant and Swan
Late night errand for conveniences
at the 24-hour pharmacy. I park
and my parents are waltzing again,
memories of Neujahrskonzert broadcasts
in the living room that fade
as soon as I step out of the car,
startled by the outdoor speakers
management has armed
with Classical, enough decibels
to discourage loitering,
provide an un-unhoused shopping experience.
A hostile hospitality
already half-forgotten
by the time I drive off
with my electrolyte packs.
Turning to the audience
the conductor lifts his baton.
The imperial capital claps along.
Victory, victory. In their hands
a sting sharpening.
Lucas Wildner (he/him) lives in Seattle. He is repairing his relationships to German and English and.... Ghost City Review published his debut chapbook Fluency in June 2022 and his chapbook [eyes emoji] was published by Hot Mess House in 2024. He can be found.
