Few poets' roots go deeper than the Romantics; Jill Alexander
Essbaum's reach all the way to the Elizabethans. In her Harlot one
hears Herbert and Wyatt and Donne, their parallax view of religion
as sex and sex as religion, their delight in sin, their smirking
penitence, their penchant for the conceit, their riddles and
fables, their fondling and squeezing of language. But this
"postulant in the Church of the Kiss" is a twenty-first century
woman, a "strange woman" less bowed to confession than hell-bent on
fairly bragging of threesomes and more complications than were
wet-dreamt of in Mr. W. H.'s philosophy. - H. L. Hix
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