Mother,

by Lauren Bledsoe
 
I regret that I am not a spoon
inside the mouth of a whale.
I regret the moon, the teeth
as they shatter and this is winter,
Mother, this thaw and this hunt,
and I have stopped looking for words 
for loss, Mother, because there are always
crumbs at the bottom of the toaster 
and empty tuna cans piled in the corner.