nothing changes.

newtown, ct; highlands ranch, co

“i heard a gunshot. i’d never heard it before.”
before, he says, as if there will be a next time,
because even at eight years old he knows.
it is the first time tragedy has found
a foothold in his bones, seeped
through his skin and into his blood,
but it will not be the last, not in this country
built of gunpowder and death.
baby-soft skin melts like butter, you know,
and blood spatters, paints school walls
with murals that are more memoirs.
they send thoughts and prayers
again and again and —
the world turns, spins on its axis 2000 times,
time moves on but doesn’t, because
there are still holes in children’s bones,
bullet casings riddling classrooms.
children die, choked by inaction,
hearts stop beating one by one and
nothing changes.