In Slovakia

Can we deny what the tea leaves say? Or other signs?

In Slovakia they grow potatoes
and cabbages
and women with strong backs and hearts.

The gypsy woman with her breasts pushed up pale
through a baggy dress printed with flowers
and a faded fringed shawl
takes his hand in hers and spreads it wide.
Her crooked finger traces his lines.
From underneath the knotted scarf
(that holds her golden hair off her
pale aquiline face and the gold hoops
of her earrings;
odd
this gypsy milky white and fair-haired)
her eyes narrow and she sighs.

It is not quiet here. There are
night noises, insects, dogs,
and on the other side of the wooden wagon
near where the horses are tethered
laughter and singing and a mandolin.
The fire crackles, too, nearer, and casts an unstill
glow in the gypsy's eyes.

"What?"

Her eyes look into and through him and then,
away.
Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head.

This ending isn't quite right yet, I know, though I've tried several things. I'll keep working on it.