BY NATHAN STONE

Remember, remember now the massacre at Boston town. 

Where blood and lives drizzled down

To water snow and night and ice, liberty’s heavy price. 

Ice so sharp it cut our heads

Now melting in puddles of life. 

Night so dark it covered grace

Now shattered by flash and fife. 

Snow so white it could wash our sins 

Now soaked in red. 

Red, crimson, orient of all shades

As mutable as a hawk’s reeling,

As unique as a soul’s careening 

Through the world’s water, halted by the lobsters’ slaughter. 

And yet it didn’t die.

As I ran through the freezing panes of slate,

Through the old streets, poxed with hate,

I felt it. 

A prick, a seed of wraithing ember light. 

It burrowed into head, stomach, heart,

Invisible to all men’s sight but kindling my blood to fight. 

For five long years it burned behind my mask,

Through tea and Indian whoops—

Through the bloody forest of sloops

That hemmed and starved us for Parliament’s tax.

Until on Bunker’s Hill where we were called for slaughter

And some, like Warren, given a crown of martyr 

It burst forth to join and forge a mighty task. 

Remember, remember now the massacre at Boston town

Where blood and lives drizzled down

To water snow and ice and night, the price for liberty’s delight.