She says she has nightmares about the killing,

then clubs a fluttering ghost of silver

until it no longer moves.

It is early morning, just before sunrise,

as she threads herself between the miles

of line coming up from the bottom.

The sky is still too dark to see beyond shapes,

so she uses her hands, and unthinking motion

when there is work.

She breastfed her first child in this black,

held it tightly to her chest, as she pulled a line

of humpback over the railing,

striking each one, quickly, without the light –

so the baby wouldn’t wake.