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


Everyone’s younger sibling was still in a stroller,
learning to drink from a cup or put on a dress.
Everyone’s mom was overseeing additions

to our beige, orange and air-conditioned kitchens,
choosing the tiles: cake batter, peach, mallow, rose-pink.
They matched the crayons that matched our skins.

Everyone’s dad was a lawyer, or else in government service.
Our teachers were also moms. They returned our work
on time, with spiky stars, in green and purple ink.

I had one friend who was actually my friend.
He liked to argue that law-abiding Americans
would end up safer if we all owned guns.

He knew about BMXes, and how to surf,
or said he did. I didn’t know what to think.
Each week on TV we awaited the motorcycles

of the bold, law-abiding, wisecracking police.
All summer his little sister ran circles around us
so we decided she had to be the Flash.

After his friends’ older friends
TP’d the split-level houses
beside our own, rain turned their thinning banners
the colour of sun-burnt, crumpled American cash.

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