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Handmade Boy

J Braxton Cooper

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I.
I am the handmade boy
descended from the tribe
of counterfeit children
carved from the elements,
a piece of timber whittled to a torso,
limbs devised from driftwood.
Tangled in another’s will
I dance my clumsy dance
with wide eyes painted on my animated face
unblinking, crimson mouth unmoving
when the man speaks through me.
I am the master’s adolescent everlasting
the father’s voice concealed
behind the curtains of a donkey-cart tableau
personified in song.

II.
Whereupon the master activates an arm
or articulates a leg he summons
the blessed virgin to his ballet.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
I go with a birdcage strapped upon my shoulders.
I go riding into the ambush with the rearguard
of Charlemagne.

In the eyes of actual children
I am the masked aboriginal.

In the midst of a confetti snowfall
the ultraviolet lights illuminate me.

I once glowed miraculously
as I danced upon the surface
of the flooded rice fields.


In the ancient times they buried
my ivory brethren in the tombs of kings.