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This one, trapped like a stone in the boiling stream.
Boiling in its own weather, as the trees
boil in the rain, whipping till they bleed.
Boiling in the mouth of its own rage,
each nerve boiled till white & clean as a blade.
Each vein gulps till green as the leaf that thrives
in the smoke of the rain. Each claw wet & alive.
Caught in the teeth of stars, a knot of bones
& string & burning hair & one clutched stone
nailed like a heretic in a field of salt,
greedy for the flame, the crack, the leap, the fall.
This one, small & dangerous as a seed
Nicholas Laughlin was born and lives in Trinidad. He is the editor of The Caribbean Review of Books.
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