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

Two PoemsLola Haskins


In the market a bull’s skinned head.
Horned still, with black lips.
A boy is carving from the cheek,
slides the slices off his palm.
Green flies gather on the cuts
like jewels.

             In the disco-bar
Amalia, inside her thin black
dress. Rafael, who is gone,
used to hurt her. A perfume
drifts from Amalia’s skin.
Men buzz, oil their hair,
hurry across the room.


I am walled and atop my walls
are glass teeth.
Sharp jewels of green and amber.
Clear shards to catch the light
the way a bride turns her ring.

Inside, soft red flowers open.
Inside, yellow bougainvillea glitters
like the yellow specks in my eyes.
Oh if you would be a thief
come crawling. Come bleeding.
Come to me in ribbons.

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