He’s sixteen, with a beard, but you’d never guess it
to hear him talk: We make a lot of good
stuff here, he says about the clay miniatures: A dead
leg, a squid, an overflowing toilet.
This is road kill. Here is my favorite:
Mr. Brontosaurus on the toilet. This is a dead
beached whale. He opens his backpack and lifts with one large hand
the vampire girl he’s sewn from fabric scraps. Can I hold it?
asks a classmate, 8. OK, he says, at last, taking time
to think. Each night he rips
her open, to repair, remove her little,
knotted heart. She is very precious to me. But I’m having
trouble. She keeps
coming undone. She is very fragile.