Tureen

I am,
A soup tureen that hasn’t seen the likes of chowder, or minestrone or vichyssoise,
In ages. I’m empty. Sullied. Still sticky with the residue from vegetables.

I am,
A soccer ball that hasn’t seen the likes of grass, or children or even a cleat,
In ages. I’m deflated. Lifeless. Left bruised and drained in the back of your garage.

I am,
An acerbic old woman who hasn’t seen the likes of passion, or warmth, or her cycle,
In ages. I’m hollow. Barren. Still existing with the memory of miniature hands and feet.

I want soup. Not your soup, don’t touch me. I want my soup.
My steaming, torrid elixir, my soup with ferocious lions and dainty songbirds.
And I want air. Not your air, your gray smog—I want life and oh, I want to feel.