two lay in olathe

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 29, 2017

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Submitted: April 29, 2017



(Written in response to the shootings of two Indian immigrants in Olathe, Kansas on February 22, 2017)


Nestled in the uncanny valley, people thrive, yet others rally

Against that which is similar but not quite the same, but we’re invincible. Nothing can touch us.


Time cards punch in and punch out. Numbers, cogs, and gears make thick fingers grow weary.

We’re drawn out for a night of light chatter and games. We certainly feel invincible.


Two clinks of a smooth, amber drink, the work day’s worries drowned out by warm whiskey,

And the soft roar of southern burr all seem quite tame. I mean, we’re invincible, aren’t we?


Back to Kansas from Oz, blushing munchkins, and bright hues, now, dry brush scrub your ankles.

Your world slips into black and white, back in time, yet here we remain, unwavering, invincible.


The roo-roo of the crow rips you back to your childhood room, just for a moment, across the world where your only troubles were forgetting your tiffin and tweaking your tin model train. We were invincible, then.


Smoky incense soaks the air. Sultry, sun-baked women sprawl out on divans. Savages they say,

Where are their forks? “Get out of my country.” Go back from where you came. Invincible? We hope.


All east of Arabia are allotted one title, one name. They can’t tell the difference, so we’re all to blame. Just squatters, mere moochers, “terrorist,” they claim. Remember invincible? It’s fleeting now.


A puny, pressed man spat slurs across at us. Intoxicated by hate and saturated with grime, Purinton was dumped out on his ass, like a bucket of slime. This only fueled what he became. We are invincible. Please.


White terrorism running rampant is met with white silence from the White House, and global indifference showers down, a sour twist on pure rain. We thought we were invincible, didn’t we? Remember?


When hate is preached and others, turned away, selfishness is made okay.

It was easy for him to feel rage, to point his gun, and bang. Forget invincible. We’re impossible.


The anger sits clotting like chunks of gray dairy left to churn. The Community winces and squirms.

Our delusion is crumpled, the illusion is slain. We’re not so invincible. We never were.

© Copyright 2019 Mitali Sharma. All rights reserved.

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