Long Pond

By the edge of Long Pond, rosa rugosa grow
in barbed, white lines beside the dunes. We tack
across the moors through troughs of heather, back
and forth. For autumn roses we walk below
the scrub pines crested high. Our pace is slow.
We trace the tangled path of tangled pacts
of quiet, circling our discontents with tact,
teeth bared in smiles that mask what we both know.

Our dogs, direct as children, flush arsenals
of pheasant wings–wild things attacking air
with stiletto pinions, bladed shrieks, and dread
in feathered laughter slips through protocols
of silence. Soon, we cut white roses and bear
them back, each alone, in daylight’s final red.

-Kitty Yanson