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

Power PicturesDavid Wilson
Close
Close

On the page at the back of a book,
a space where I drew my mother:
yellow jumper,
squiggle of hair,
smile weak as the smack she dealt.
It made me laugh. Other boys with fathers
were violently whacked. I almost
envied their toughness and punishment.

I painted a policeman,
a crazy tower of blue. Mother said,
if I was lost I must ask one directions.

At school, I twitched,
fuddled by English
and my eleven-times table.

The harder I thought, the denser the fog.
So I did not ask the way. I truanted,
sick, day after day.

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