The blue whale is king of melancholy:
large, unwieldy,
just under the surface of things.

Listen—it has the cries of
broken machines,
especially when caught in nets.

We made a word
for what whales were—
Whistful which is

like Wistful but distinct
somehow, like sadness that’s
always far away.

You begged me to go
whale-watching with you.
We never did.

They say a blue whale’s
arteries are big enough
to swim through,

but that’s just myth.
I think it’s the other
way around:

I have blue whales
instead of blood now.
Weighs the same as love.