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.