In the latest issue:

In Quarantine

Erin Maglaque

Après Brexit

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: Springtime for Donald

David Bromwich

Meetings with their Gods

Claire Hall

‘Generation Left’

William Davies

At the North Miami Museum: Alice Paalen Rahon

Mary Ann Caws

Buchan’s Banter

Christopher Tayler

‘American Dirt’

Christian Lorentzen

Fiction and the Age of Lies

Colin Burrow

In Lahore

Tariq Ali


James Lasdun

Rereading Bowen

Tessa Hadley

At the Corner House

Rosemary Hill

William Gibson

Thomas Jones

Poem: ‘Murph & Me’

August Kleinzahler

The Stud File

Kevin Brazil

John Boorman’s Quiet Ending

David Thomson

In Shanghai: The West Bund Museum

John-Paul Stonard

Diary: The Deborah Orr I Knew

Jenny Turner

The Word from Wuhan

Wang Xiuying


There’s a place on the road
coming down from the hills where rows
of oyster frames unfurl
on an indigo sea
like a pattern of bamboo fans
or blocks of pale embroidery
on a geisha’s kimono,
whose knees and shoulders
press against the border
of the wood engraving
tight as Alice’s
when she started growing.

The high-piled mass
of the dead volcano cone
is her oiled and twisted hair
fighting free from its combs
to tangle in the shell-
encrusted poles. Her eyes
look crazed. A small tooth shows
between pursed lips, and one breast’s
tip in the oyster scent
of watered silk’s
loosened folds. Her mood is
storm clouds over the lagoon.

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