from The Mapmaker Fables A child is born from snow. Her presence is signified by a string of damp clicks. She casts a perfect pulse, distracting the mapmaker from his work. After assessing his progress with a handful of copper and glass, he turns and looks to the window. Snow is falling, has obviously… [Read More]
A static shadow collapses. The red fog of its sound cups my ears in a loving way, and an alphabet reverses. The vibration this releases breeds a hive and my tongue recalls the wasp a machine resembles.
We are surrounded by machines. Feed them, she says. There is grass woven tightly around each of my fingers. There is moss and there are aphids dying. Their wings dissolve in pink and yellow traces. Still there are the machines. I want to ask her why, but a layer of music is unfolding from her… [Read More]