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

GOD HATES YOUR FEELINGS

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

Close
Close

Who would have credited their late August collapse?
They flourish like jumpweed over these punishing summers,
or did do, adversaries going faint here alongside the river.
Eighteen-wheelers bust across the interstates, devouring horizon,
tuned to the one same station, signal fluttering
as this distressing tale unfolds, inning by inning, game by game.

Do you suppose, in the beginning, there was an actual Denny
for whom the tuna melts, iced tea and assorted sides
were meant as commemorative, an act of devotion?
Surely, someone has written on this subject at length.
But is it not pleasing to think of a corporeal Denny –
adored child, doting granny, down-home, deep-dish Salome –

living in one of those clapboard shitholes behind a silo,
playing at quoits, kibitzing, shrieking like an infidel set alight?
    – Skip, you must be as baffled as anyone?
The veteran field general gazes into the near distance.
You know this look: cerebral, resolute – contempt? –
big hair threatening to erupt from under his cap.

The cell is vibrating in his left front pants pocket:
three likelihoods, none of them at this moment inviting.
Who attends to these staged postmortems on TV:
inebriates, the eviscerati, Denny, you, me?
     – I wish I knew the answer to that one,
Pete. I do. I really, truly do.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Read More

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences