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


Anticipating our zigzag, as if somehow
By information or low

Cunning, she knew our speed
And course, she contrived a need

For company. She came at us
From all angles, silently, without fuss,

A whine on the asdic, homing in.
We readied depth charges, prepared

Our tin fish. She moved away,
Out of the sea’s swing and sway,

As if hurt, a rebuffed lover,
Whose hide-and-seek was over.

We never fired, nor she either,
Her hull like wet liquorice slipping

Fathoms below us, her bleeping
A reminder like the weather

Of death’s attention. In dreams
Her name haunts me sometimes.

‘You, too,’ a familiar that rhymes
With everything, except what it seems.

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