By Pamela Carter

She is like a plump old goose sitting
mid-yard enjoying the gosling bustle 

—squawks, the familiar scent of guano—
happiest in midst of tumult, sedate, 

as those of such small brains can be. You
are a gosling—less on your mind, since 

yours is even smaller than hers, yet
the love you hold for her, and she for you, 

is vast and wise, and as bright-spangled
as Earth’s galaxy’s biggest mother bang.