Eleanor Wilner
"Entering the Labyrinth," an essay on the persona poem.

Eleanor Wilner
Four persona poems: Minos, Ariadne, Daedalus, and The Minotaur.


This marks an author's first online publication Michelle Boisseau

This marks an author's first online publication Annie Boutelle
Christine Casson
This marks an author's first online publication Carolyn Creedon
Claudia Emerson
Daisy Fried
Diane Gilliam
Shadab Zeest Hashmi
Kathleen Jesme
Ilya Kaminsky
Marilyn Krysl
David Lee
Gary Copeland Lilley
Maurice Manning
Alicia Ostriker
Alicia Jo Rabins
Tim Seibles
This marks an author's first online publication Heidy Steidlmayer
Book Review
"Tourist in Hell" by Eleanor Wilner—Book Review, by David Rigsbee.

Alicia Jo Rabins

Alicia Jo Rabins is a poet, musician, and composer based in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, 6x6, the Boston Review, and in anthologies from NYU Press and Everyman's Library (Knopf). As a musician, she tours internationally; "Girls in Trouble," her art-pop song cycle about the women of Torah (Jdub Records), was released in November 2009 to critical acclaim. She holds an M.F.A. in poetry from Warren Wilson College and is a student and teacher of ancient Jewish texts.

Sotah's School of Beauty    


As a young girl
I used to study
the definitions.  
Body a sphere
that walks around
eating pretzels with mustard.
Beauty a hologram
spinning onstage,
white light whipped to cream.
Time a crack in a mirror
that changes your face
when you look.  


I was fifteen
when you called me woman,
we toasted to the adolescent I was.
Like a pair of exotic fruits
that could not breed
when placed together.  
In a casket made of willow.
I could not beat it.
I could not bear it.
Time the adulterer:
a delay in glass, a decay.


My students visit me in the basement.
I hand each one a small well
of ground-up letters
the color of crushed pearl,
a cream base for lids.
We study the magic of powder,
shadow, wand, brush
until beauty beats their faces
with its little tendrils
and red butterflies
settle on their cheeks.  
Let my thighs sag, girls,
let my belly distend.  
Let me teach you about beauty:
a slanted shipwreck
draped in its own torn sails.



© 2010 The Cortland Review