In the latest issue:

An Ordinary Woman

Alan Bennett

Anglo-America Loses its Grip

Pankaj Mishra

Short Cuts: John Bolton’s Unwitting Usefulness

Mattathias Schwartz

Smells of Hell

Keith Thomas

Mrs Oliphant

Tom Crewe

Tippett’s Knack

Philip Clark

At Tate Modern: Steve McQueen

Colin Grant

Catherine Lacey

Nicole Flattery

Churchill’s Cook

Rosemary Hill

The ‘Batrachomyomachia’

Ange Mlinko

On Dorothea Lange

Joanna Biggs

Paid to Race

Jon Day

Poem: ‘Traveller’s Tales: Chapter 90’

August Kleinzahler

The Soho Alphabet

Andrew O’Hagan

Old Tunes

Stephen Sedley

Victor Serge’s Defective Bolshevism

Tariq Ali

The Murdrous Machiavel

Erin Maglaque

Diary: Insane after coronavirus?

Patricia Lockwood

My HandsTariq Latif

All day I have wiped paste inks
From auxiliary rollers, ink ducts,
Rubber stamps and the work top. Dabbing
My fingers in trichloroethane.

The cleaning solution is clear as water
And smells like methylated spirits.
My fingers are numb. When I squeeze
Them they tingle, letting loose

Tiny electric bolts. The top part
Of the fingerprints is grained with inks.
My fingers are like lighthouses
Granulating under a storm of acids.

Fissures straddle across them.
Some cuts run deep as valleys.
The air is loaded with missile-shaped
Atoms that bombard the surface.

Dust plumes up. I shed flesh flakes.
My hands are ageing, faster
Than the rest of me, mummified
In the corrosive vapours of my vocation.

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