Susurration.

Selfishness
is a cup of green tea
three times a day
while watching cats chase a dog
and thinking
my universe is too small.

It is lacking,

a soulchild
in the womb
of a broken woman

and neighbors who are friendly
without wanting
you to be their ulterior
something.
No one brings sugar
I don't have room for
in the pantry
or wants my Christmas cookies
shaped like crescent moons.

The woman
across the street
has a candle in her window,
plastic forever,
only visible at night
because during the day
her curtains
remain closed.

It is a lone star
in the line of universal housing.

She thinks I'm the devil
since sometimes
my grass is too tall,
my leaves are unkempt,
and my would-be husband
leaves the trashbin
by the street.

I want to love them
over gossip and tea
without changing my fundamentals.
But I am too young,
a foreigner
in this all American
god-fearing
town.

I've heard them whisper
that I do not belong.

So I drink my tea strong
and bitter,
and sometimes in midsummer heat
I leave my green grass
long.