LUCAS WILDNER

Monsoon

.        —with a line from Barbara Kingsolver

The night I  came out to  my dad,  I made  a  mistake.  Told  him I  was  muggy.  An

observation  we  took  turns making  almost-daily every  July as we  waited for the

first  storm  of  the  season,  for  swollen  clouds  lumbering  toward  us  since  late

morning to break,  quenching everything  in their path.  Easier to  accept weeks of

blue-sky heat than to hope for rain from clouds just passing through. The desert is

patient. He said good  night to his  muggy son,  went  to  bed.  Schwül, schwul. Two

words  separated  by  a mere  umlaut,  a dip of  the  tongue.  Day  after  day,  I  had

practiced my  pronunciation,  made room in my  mouth  for the sounds I had yet to

hear.  They leave  you feeling  like you have  cried.  Catharsis  in  imitation.  Each rain

an  opportunity  to  let  go  of  what’s  accumulated  since  the last.  Something was

waiting to green.

Lucas Wildner lives in Seattle, where he is repairing his relationships with English and German. Forthcoming and recent work can be found at Pidgeonholes, Homology Lit, Nice Cage, and elsewhere. On Twitter, sadly: @wucas_lildner