Rudolfiner Haus, Döbling
The Catholic sisters of the Rudolfiner Haus
Christened me, this new-born Döbling denizen,
into their faith and pinned an Edelweiss onto
my swaddling as they placed me in the arms
of my mama. That day Ha Kodesh Baruch Hu
granted me my Jewish sense of awe, moved me
to applaud my new world with cries, as newborns
do, and so, this unintentional converso, soul
saved before she knew souls were a thing, went
forth into a golden world of Klimt and Strauss,
with trips to Semmering for Alpine drift with
parents who, as dyed in the Loden Austrians,
were keen on it, and hiking in the Emperor’s
old hunting ground with feathered cap and
gentle white-hair terrier hound. Baptized once
more into the mythic lore of Danube blue,
I was dipped into that grayish river flowing in
three-quarter time to Sieczyński’s kitchy tune,
Wien Wien Nur Du Allein—Vienna, city of
my dreams, my body firmly held by my papa
who soon began to croon a sadder song—
Erika, Erika, wir fahren nach Amerika!
America, not some Shangri-La, but scary
Neverland, a cut n’ run from our treasured
home where no Jew might ever walk again
without a vibe of boots, where no baptismal
waters have flowed strong enough to cleanse
the stain of Anschluss that consumed the
better portion of a Volk who, arms thrust out,
tore off their shirts and bras with shouts of
Heil! in rabid greeting to the entry of earth’s
misbegotten prodigal. So when the strains of
Edelweiss are warbled by the Lederhosen set,
I think about the shouts of Juden raus and all
the well intended folk at Rudolfiner Haus.
It’s In My Bones—TA RAM PA PA
I Love to Waltz with My Mama
Mother said the Blue Danube was a muddy river—
mud hides bones, There’s a snapshot of me age two
sitting on a white limed ledge, my father beside me
to his waist in water. That was when the bonebreakers
came. We treaded brown current fearing to trample
unmarrowed bones. The river churns through me
like new wine from Grinzing—laps at apple-green
memories in three-quarter time, boils double-helix
eddies uncoiling Strauss at five in the afternoon
with swells of Habsburg coffeehouse Gemütlichkeit
Who were those neighbors? Friends who sprinkled us
with water in the yard when we were kids but learned
nothing about showers, who applauded uncle Martin
playing Faust on stage as he sold his soul for Marguerite,
but also clapped when Martin rolled to dodge impromptu
kicks and pummels as he shoveled Nazi horse shit off
the street, who greeted us Grüssgott each day but
squawked good riddance Jew as gangsters wheeled
our things away.
Returning to my Lannerstrasse home after the war,
I tried the bell—an old man shuffled to the door.
Do you know about the folks who lived here in those
former years? I asked. Oh them, he grinned sardonically
his green eyes peering to my core—they croaked
decades ago, ain’t none of ‘em alive no more
Erika Michael has a Ph.D. in Art History from the University of Washington and has taught at Trinity University, San Antonio, Oregon State in Corvallis, and the University of Puget Sound. She has participated in workshops with Carolyn Forché, Thomas Lux, Linda Gregerson, Laure-Anne Bosselaar, Tim Siebles, Major Jackson, and Jeffrey Levine. Her work has appeared in Poetica Magazine, Cascade, Drash: Northwest Mosaic, Mizmor l’David Anthology, Bracken Magazine, The Winter Anthology, The Institute for Advanced Study Letter, Belletrist Magazine, The Dewdrop, Aletheia Literary Quarterly, and elsewhere. In 2019 she was awarded first prize in the Ekphrastic Poetry Competition at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival.