A Sonnet on Love From Someone Opposed

A Sonnet on Love From Someone Opposed

“There is no springtime on Venus, nor 

any other season—no seasons in hell!”

- Allan Treiman
 

Who named Venus the planet 

of love? Yes, it’s bright, blinding 

as lust’s hot passion. Year round 

the forecast reads a balmy 870 

degrees, blistering enough to melt 

metal—lead, bismuth—not us, 

though (human bodies yearn, burn 

in an untold heat). But Pluto’s spring 

is a lukewarm love like no other: frozen 

atmosphere stops falling out of sky 

as decades of vernal devotion endure 

death and dwarfhood. Its heavy glacial 

heart pulls ours off kilter, so no one 

melts together or dissolves into cloud.