Bullet Points

Months ago, I accepted this poem from Bonnie Bishop for the Red Letters.  Then I prayed I’d never publish it.

“Bullet Points” was written sometime after the absolutely heartbreaking mass shooting at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, back in 2022.  Bonnie hesitated to circulate it at the time, but it will appear in her new book Patience, her third full-length collection, forthcoming from Every Other Thursday Press. When she showed the poem to me, I told Bonnie I’d keep the poem in reserve and issue it after yet another shooting at a school: when our hearts would be broken yet again; and when something like a righteous anger would be necessary in the face of what (forgive my cynicism) I fully expect will be the standard response from many state and national leaders.  When—for what feels like the thousandth time—the President and government officials appear in public to offer heartfelt prayers and hand-wringing, followed by promises that this time something will be done to prevent this continual nightmare. . .that is, as soon as we’d sufficient time to mourn. . .or another study can be commissioned. . .or when political fevers subside. . .or (and again I’ll beg your pardon) hell freezes over.  The fact is as simple as it is unavoidable: there is just too much money, buying too much influence, solidifying passionate constituencies on the Right and the Left, to allow this issue to ever be put to rest—that is, unless we the people demand otherwise. Other countries have mobilized their national will to institute real change, so this is not impossible.  Take the case of New Zealand, for example; following the 2019 mass shootings at a mosque in Christchurch, their elected officials, across parties, united to pass comprehensive gun regulations that showed an immediate reduction in firearm violence (though I was saddened to discover, in writing this, that right-wing political parties are now trying to roll back those laws).  Up until now, we’ve clearly not shown such resolve.  And meanwhile, yet another community will have to endure the unbearable pain of seeing the most innocent among them forced to live in fear—or far, far worse—laid to rest inside diminutive caskets, while family and friends face the cold heavens and weep.

And I’ll ask your forgiveness yet again for magnifying your grief (or, perhaps, troubling your indifference) at a time of such awful tragedy.  But I believe it is, in fact, one of the responsibilities of poets and artists: to convey uncomfortable truths, to challenge the imagination and stir the conscience—anything but simply allowing such violence to become normalized in our society.  And so, out of sadness and revulsion, Bonnie assembled a PowerPoint display in fragmentary verse, complete with the ferocious irony of her bullet points.  The poem coaxes us to sit with the reality of this situation, even as the media turn it into a pageant of communal suffering (and, let’s not forget, there’s money to be made in that as well).  She employs a variety of verbal attacks, assaulting us with our own benign logic (“because to vote, drink, sign a lease or/ be legally responsible for . . .”); or with images we would most certainly rather forget (“and sandals fell where they danced…Star Wars backpack,/ pink sneakers. . .”).  She even resorts to the underhanded tactic of simply reminding us that we have a role in all this—“because we can say NO”—hoping we might finally exercise the power that remains in the hands of a democratic electorate.  When the poem concludes with the heartrending phrase “pulped/ beyond recognition in a spray of . . .”, it’s as if even the poet hadn’t the heart to complete the sentence, leaving that final ellipsis like bullet holes across window glass.

And so, just before 8:30 a.m., at the Annunciation Catholic School in Minneapolis—while the children were celebrating Mass during the first week of classes—another senseless act of brutality will add Annunciation’s name to the sad roster of places such as Columbine and Sandy Hook and Parkland and Robb Elementary and Virginia Tech and. . ..  The inscription at the front of the Annunciation Church read: “House of God and the gate of heaven.”  If you and I, my friends and fellow citizens, don’t do something to finally demand that sensible laws be crafted to at least lessen the possibility of further tragedies like this one, we ought not even pretend to ask anyone’s forgiveness.  And those celestial gates we are so fond of imagining will never swing open to grant us peace.