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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.