Beginning Wax to Bronze at Chemeketa Community College

Abstract

Beginning Wax to Bronze at Chemeketa Community College Devon Walker-Figueroa (bio) I begin applying the Vaseline,prepping my pig heart for the months-long transition from fleshto air to wax to air to bronze.I want the closest thing to humanI can find, & this is it& I can honestly say I got it for freefrom Mt. Angel Meat Company.Before immersing the musclein what dentists useto capture impressions, I putmy fingers inside & widenthe chambers, make surethey’re big enough to hold a hand-ful of pencils or fresh cutorchids. Our teacher, Calvin, tells meI could make goodmoney selling these at SaturdayMarket, but I’ve no desireto share my early attempts.“Sometimes I think I’m pro-eugenics,”my friend Susan whispers, her eyesfixed on our pregnant classmatewho’s seated in the corner, nakedfrom the waist up, slathering her breasts& belly in plaster of paris. “I mean,who gets their boobs inkedwith barbed wire & flaming dice?”“Maybe she’s religious,” the guy next to ussuggests, as he eases his pin toolalong the surface of a tiny VictoryBrown wax gladiator whose chestplate, he assures us, is completelyaccurate. “Don’t misunderstand [End Page 136] me,” Susan goes on, “I knowmy parents should’ve been sterilizedfrom the get-go.” She’s sculptinga hollow prairie dog that, oncedone, will double as an urn & waiteight months for her father’s tickerto quit. Calvin’s decoratedour classroom with classical arthe’s torn from a fourteen-month calendarthat began in 1987, the year ofthe rabbit & my birth, meaning Venusde Milo’s mutilated perfection flickerson a yellow sheet under the thrumof a ventilation fan lately installedto keep our lungs freefrom glass & earlydecline. We sometimes entera trance, every eye fixed ona shape it’s anxious to seemade void. “I want my corpseto be a puppet,” Susan oncetold me. “That way you can be the voicereading my funeral message, goingsomething like, ‘take a look at mylife, I’m a lot like you.’” I nodded, saidI’d love to be hervoice & have always hopedfor the chance to be a masterof some kind. Calvin’s brought us a bookon bronze through the ages & it’s makingthe rounds. The boy who’s forminga bong, even though he knowsit’s not allowed & prettytoxic to inhale anythingfrom heated bronze, says, “skip me,”meaning I get extra timeto linger over a twelfth-century she-wolf.“Trappage or decay?” I inquire,pointing to her gapingleg, a kind of absenceshe seems shaped around, becauseI want to know if the artist fucked upor if this is what happens,in time, to everything we cast [End Page 137] & the teacher supposesthe maker didn’t vent the jointright, as in, perfectly, & thisshould be a lesson to us all. On his neckwhat Hippocrates once calleda witch’s teat oozes & I considerhow something so minor can killa person if ignored. “Get yourselflooked at,” I want to say,but don’t. More evidence I’m notthe person I should be. Calvin’sasked me to modelfor him. He’s being commissionedby some rich guy in Oahuto sculpt a female nude surroundedby blown glass flames rising uparound her & illuminatedblue from below her marblepedestal. I could be her.She could have my face, smallbreasts & scoliotic spine, or someversion thereof. But I keep this in-formation to myself—confidential. I’m getting dirtylooks from my pregnant class-mate, who’s sniffing the airin dramatic fashion, hopingI’ll reassure everyonethat my reeking under-taking will subside soonenough, but in truthit’s barely begun. The bookstates the she-wolf was castcenturies before the murderousbabies were placed belowher swollen teats. Trials & executions“at the wolf” were recordedup until 1438, meaningthe she-wolf has seenmore death than you & I...