This poem appears in the Summer 2016 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.
The poets, who used to think otherwise,
will read this sonnet, scoff and snipe,
call it embarrassing, and roll their eyes
at my mushy, low-brow, sentimental tripe.
Well, the hell with them! What do I care?
when you still “walk in beauty” every night,
the moonlight in your eyes and windswept hair,
the inexplicable “phantom” of my delight;
when you’re the only thing I’m thinking of,
in the city, the bedroom, or on the beach,
where we’ve confabulated this hyper-love
with “two hearts beating each to each,”
whose hearts still jump when the other enters the room,
thump-thump-thump, and, yes, boom-boom-boom.