a different kind of nightmare
is how it\'s referred to
but how different is it really
when it is the only life you know
a world of dark, secretive windows
encrusted with sea salt
the scent of seaweed strong
beneath the rotted smell of fish
stones scattered along a beach
sharp enough to slice through
the vulnerable skin of young feet
feet that have run
across unvarnished porch boards
finding thin wooden needles
that pierce the skin
in search of the sweet, hot taste of blood
---sweet with just a touch of acidity
blood is currency here
and it is spent and spent and spent
jarred from your slumber
the wails you hear
make you think of the sound
a whale caught in a net might make
but alas
it is only the sound
of the mother egret
as you wring the necks
of her chicks
and throw them in a pile
on the sand
at your feet