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 been falling for some time. When he finally looks to the child, the mapmaker’s eyes correct a damaged swan. His spasms cease. For the first time, he cannot remember. The river his hand performs reverses.
from The Mapmaker Fables
The girl wonders what a higher pitch signifies, whether the arc of a wave forms an atonal glare. She amends her notes. She grafts her voice to the falling light. Her music marks the room’s borders. It stirs a wasp’s corpse. Before she leaves, she stoops to gloss a grain of sand. Gradually she comes to the conclusion that what is missing takes the form of a negative ghost.
Matthew Mahaney is the author of The Plural Space (Salò 2016), The Storm that Bears Your Name (The Cupboard 2015), and Your Attraction to Sharp Machines (BatCat 2013). He lives in Madison, Wisconsin. 
