Shelf Life

There's a pitcher on a shelf in my mother's kitchen;

A gift from a friend, I think,

On some occasion since forgotten.

It has never been used to hold any kind of liquid.

It has all of the qualifications of a perfectly useful pitcher.

The handle is exceptionally functional,

I'm sure it has the capacity to fill not one, but several glasses,

And I believe it's even dishwasher safe.

The pitcher has sat on the shelf in between equally unusable teapots,

Dust collecting on the lip, and inside,

While we pour our drinks out of plastic bottles

Into paper cups.

On my newsfeed there's a woman screaming about her right

To choose whether or not to carry a child,

And she talks about her body, the temple,

Her body, the free being,

Her body, her property, 

Her womb, her decision, her life.

And I press my hands to my midsection

To try to quell the ache I'm not supposed to feel

When I realize that she's fighting to give me the right

To sit on a dusty shelf,

Watching others do what I was 

Made for.