Everything is a clock inside, gearedand oiled to sing and turn—the body,
even, no different than that of medievalmechanical monkeys lining the bridge
in the park at Hesdin, re-pelted in badgerfur every year. For the surface of life
runs by a mere series of cause and effects,buried beneath with care and craft.
In grief, the gears and springs spin on.The water pumps through the pipes,
and the body moves. We were all once partof a set of nesting dolls, a robot designed
in the body of another robot, and as always,mechanical replication fails—the shell
falls away, rusts, decays. An engineered failure.Early automata were considered miracles,
but of course, had no sense of their makers.They never saw their mother’s body
graying on display, or felt themselvesunmade by absence, as if a spring
let loose a monkey’s howlso real it sounds like…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2020