INTELLIGENCE

By Kate Kearns

\\

In formation, the front goose, 
its wingbeat, begins a current 
that boosts the goose behind it, 
a cool sky tang in its nostrils 
grassy feather stalk. Winglift 
amplifies from bird to bird until 
they coast on each other’s motion, 
until flight is a form of ease.
Listen—the flock lifts the flock. 
They displace air as humpbacks
displace water, which is made 
of air, and the air closes behind them.
Blue on blue, the arch 
of the atmosphere.


\\

A mystery in the goose’s brain, year 
after year, finds the same familiar lake. 
It learns soon as it first flies that 
particular stew. O they spoon it up; 
they swim in it; they tether themselves 
feet to beak to that one and only 
succulence. In autumn, maple keys 
those seeds built for flight, 
feather down from their stems. 
They spin so fast 
they lift themselves a little as they fall, 
amplifying the breeze that pulled them 
from their branches. Winglift, 
that whisper, that whale song. 
They land on the lake and sink 
all the way down. 
The lake is no longer the same.

\\

Begin alone and naked. All your limbs 
point down, their ounces piled 
on each other. Muscles pull bones 
in line with bones, all of you a heavy 
water basin. Look up. Remember 
your hands have the same bones 
as wings, as whale fins. That cloud 
is shaped like a hand you’d like to hold. 
Space tunnels through your bones 
as the water in you reaches for water 
up there. You run until you feel like 
your feet aren’t touching the ground, 
which is water, which is air
and all at once you’re 
swimming in light.

Kate Kearns is the author of You Are Ruining My Loneliness (Littoral Books, 2023). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Appalachian Review, Rustica, the Maine Sunday Telegram, Salamander, Peregrine, Sugar House Review and elsewhere. She earned her MFA from Lesley University. Learn more at www.katekearns.com.