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

Close
Close

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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