In the latest issue:

Loathed by Huysmans

Julian Barnes

Too early or too late?

David Runciman

Short Cuts: ‘Parallel Lives’

Tom Crewe

Society as a Broadband Network

William Davies

Indefinite Lent

Thomas Jones

In 1348

James Meek

The House of York

John Guy

At the Movies: Pasolini’s ‘Teorema’

Michael Wood

Secrets are like sex

Neal Ascherson

Poem: ‘The Bannisters’

Paul Muldoon

Clarice Lispector

Rivka Galchen

Marius Petipa

Simon Morrison

At the Foundling Museum: ‘Portraying Pregnancy’

Joanne O’Leary

Caroline Gordon v. Flannery O’Connor

Rupert Thomson

Revism

Joe Dunthorne

Poem: ‘The Reach of the Sea’

Maureen N. McLane

Diary: Where water used to be

Rosa Lyster

How to set up an ICU

Lana Spawls

Follow the Science

James Butler

Close
Close

Be that as it may, I’m wakened by the moans
not of the wind
nor the wood-demons

but Oscar Mac Oscar, as we call the hound
who’s wangled himself
into our bed; ‘Why?’ ‘Why not?’

He lies between us like an ancient quoof
with a snout of perished gutta-
percha, and whines at something on the roof.
               §
I’m suddenly mesmerised
by what I saw only today: a pair of high-heels
abandoned on the road to Amherst.
               §
And I’ve taken off, over the towns of Keady
and Aughnacloy and Caledon –
Et In Arcadia –

to a grave lit by acetylene
in which, though she preceded him
by a good ten years, my mother’s skeleton

has managed to worm
its way back on top of the old man’s,
and she once again has him under her thumb.

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