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  • lal's eyes are red. rubbed-sand in his eyes, rubbed salt in his eyes, in his open wound Wave. Lal's eyes are red, no wife, no business in a second, under the big buddha eye. washing twice in terrible height with force like a god in labor pushing creation out of its, out of its mind, out of his mind with the agony of two losses plus two losses equals four of two legs pulled out from under and now standing at the autumn tide, while the living memory re-runs, lal's eyes are red. from brown water with concrete bullets coming in the windows of the bus, picking up houses, tearing asunder the peaceful laziness of poya. and at this new poya, the water's rise again - an angry cry emanates from quiet buddha in the equatorial darkness - towards the mountains move all those near enough to listen, to hear, but the hearing is the comfort that hunger is not brining the tide. it is when there is no more sound that terror will truly rise. no more sound. there was no more sound and lal lay wondering, barely noticing, touching his wife's soft ear. while two vital girls stirred in the adjacent room, a thin wall away. no sound - all sound sucked back out, exposing unbreathable fish flopping on virgin sand, and naked reefs and rocks drenched with weeds that have never left the ocean womb. all sound sucked away then exploding forward with god-like anger, how could a god be so angry that he would swallow three times one thousand plus homes and houses and livlihoods and peace? so angry that a man's hand let go of one child and held the other. so angry that a brother hung silently, died slowly, noiselessly in a tree. so angry that daughters disappeared everywhere. and wives. and a grocery store became a morgue without asking. there was no one to ask. the streets of galle ravaged on poya while buddha sat unscathed. a school, a hospital, thousands of homes reduced to rubble while buddha sat unscathed and lal's eyes began to redden with the daily sadness laid on his shoulders while buddha sat unscathed - glaring out from his glass temple, mockingly calm. that's the way of it. there is no redemption. two waves arrived in quick succession at 9:26 on the poya morning. and smashed galle to pieces. now people go about in a lazy haze, despair shallowly masked under the equatorial sun; lal moved to a blue house down a dirt road with his last-leg Hope, and empty pockets.
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