The Beatrice Ravenel Prize
O Come, O Come Emanuel
Hush daughter, breathe low and slow, low and slow.
Imagine a cross-section of a lake—
its surface at eye level smooth and blank
when nine pebbles fall in a line to the depths below.
Hush daughter, be still and silent as stone.
We may march into that cold lake of lost souls.
We may wade into the water of fears.
And white skin will soak up our blood, sweat, and tears.
Wake daughter, and run, and cry, run and cry.
Nine bullets dragged their bodies through the veil.
Grab each one and become the tattered kite tail
as all fly above and pierce the sky.
Rise up daughter and blast into the light.
We shall overcome the tale of that wretched night.