Dinner With The Gunman
I invite you to my dinner table
Join me, will you?
I’d like to sit next to you.
I’d like to understand.
Put you on the operating table too
Pick at your brain
My sister a surgeon
I want to understand the wiring,
The thought, the impulse.
Time of death August 5th
What was your last thought before you fell into a pool of bleeding red?
And what did you eat that morning,
Your last meal or favorite food?
Sitting next to you at my dinner table
You hold me at gunpoint.
A feast always follows bloodshed.
Is it my turban
My beautiful shiny scarf
My long plaited hair
A little boy wearing a gun
It was fun to play fight, kill spectacles in thin air.
A soldier, valiant and brave
You pick up a gun
I know you.
You wake up
look in the mirror to touch your skin.
I see you.
Hiding behind white
Sweet Sunday morning
My call to prayer
When did you learn to betray me?
Who taught you this?
Did you plant these seeds or did I?
I open my mouth
You pull the trigger again
Splitting me in half
The victim is you.
* PTSD – Post-traumatic Stress Disorder
Originally published on SikhChic on August 11, 2012