What's this? I actually liked a poem published by The New Yorker? And, furthermore, it's a love poem, that most clichéd of genres?
Yep. "Claustrophilia" by Alice Fulton, in the July 2 issue. Not only is there a lot of truth to it, it is memorable, quotable... and taught me some new words, too ("moxibustion").
See also the New Yorker blog's interview with Fulton about her work.