In the latest issue:

The American Virus

Eliot Weinberger

The Home Life of Inspector Maigret

John Lanchester

Story: ‘Have a Seat in the Big Black Chair’

Diane Williams

The Last Whale

Colin Burrow

In Beijing

Long Ling

Princess Margaret and Lady Anne

Rosemary Hill

At the Movies: ‘Arkansas’

Michael Wood

Ruin it your own way

Susan Pedersen

At Home

Jane Miller

The Ottoman Conundrum

Helen Pfeifer

Poem: ‘Muntjac’

Blake Morrison

Piketty’s Revolution

Geoff Mann

Short Cuts: In Tripoli

Jérôme Tubiana

Coetzee Makes a Leap

Christopher Tayler

At Auckland Castle: Francisco de Zurbarán

Nicola Jennings

Drain the Swamps

Steven Shapin

Diary: In the Isolation Room

Nicholas Spice

Close
Close

For Don Paterson

He preferred his glass eye to be of itself,
vitreous not ocular
or even optically convincing.

Without pupil or iris, allowed to risk
its stubbornly fluid nature,
the blue held everything.

It liquefied in candlelight
and clouded over in winter.
Once, at the opera, an aria

built wave upon wave of sound,
higher and closer till it struck
the resonant frequency

of blue glass
and the molecules of his eye
oscillated into a thousand flowers.

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