Broken Arms

Satish Verma

The witch-hunt starts 
for an unexploded bomb. 

A racist slur becomes mute 
for posterity. 

The words start migrating― 
coming out of their skin and colors. 

A dead man walks into 
a coal pit for exoneration. 

Breathless, I become privy 
to mass suicides of the flying moths. 

You become a child, hiding 
behind a tree, watching 
a tiger maul a striped ariel.