As every Russian story
near the beginning or end
says "[____] realized after 30 years
he did not know his wife at all,"
so it is easy
to watch the girl with fluttering lashes
and realize I know
everything about her,
from the manner in which her hands
unveil her hair,
to the reservoir reflections in her eyes
of the things she thinks
but does not say
with her mouth pulled back, listening.
Soon, a dialogue goes on
quite independent of her complaints
about classes, the weather, her mom,
one about the gifts of herself
she's afraid to offer—
what I've already received—
about what she's
holding back,
the understanding of me
I must learn for myself.
She's too discreet to say.
