The Glacier
Issue Three
Winter 2024

VOLCANIC

On Discovery Channel, once I saw a mountain
catch fire, as if a merciful wind poured

all sunsets of the world to cheer up that ugly
upside down funnel of a thing. The sparks

danced their way into the clouds as I ran
outdoors for a glimpse to summon

my friends. The imagination of childhood nested
me there, and my dreams feasted on the orange

showers of fire mountain. But today the doctor
wants to know how dreaming this familiar scene

now makes me scream for help so that
the neighbors come running two nights a week.

Instead, I follow the sun on its early climb.
It lights up her hair from behind. I know

she won’t burst into flame, but draw together
my knees. She leans like a kid for a story.

So I tell her: It was me who took him
to the waterless seabed. It was me

who stopped running to make sure
the wave was a rolling orange sunset.

It was me who my only friend
shouldn’t have run back to save.

A MOUNTAINOUS MEMORY

Lighting up the curvy roads of Nuwara Eliya,
morning sinks slowly. The tea buds squint
from sleep through dew. As the saris
of tea pluckers rainbow the estate,
the homespun baskets
on their backs fill with green.

The sun’s hungover and late: he’s messed up 
his compass, the morning star, and jostles
through the clouds pushing them away
to find his way home, as his love,
the mountain, in preparation
unfurls her hair in mist.

This is just how the wave hurled
from the horizon. I ran ashore
to stop and stare, a sitting duck
against the scenic wonder. Then Sapumal
came back to grab my hand, and somebody
running from behind knocked him over.

INTERVIEW 16

Raju’s memory of them drowns once again
in his teacup. He watches it engulf the house, newly

built on the same site. Children frolic
on the garden swing. Nona, waking late that Sunday,

fries pol sambol for a quick fix. Another whole week
before work and school. Raju wants to help, but Nona

wants his eyes on the kids. After all, those who drank
their heads off on Christmas might yell obscenities

the kids shouldn’t hear. He kisses her nape and finds
it a lighthouse into the future. She pushes him

into the verandah, to the newspaper he doesn’t
want to open this morning. The crispy holiday air blots

drunk shouts on the beach and dips his grateful eyes
in the ephemeral realms of sleep.

The teacup breaks with a hollow thud and the pieces
surround him for an ambush.

Then the sea attacked, he says. I planted my family
in the garden. You can see them flowering.

I smelled salt for the first time. When you write
your book, don’t send me a copy. It’ll reek of salt.

Samodh Porawagamage is the author of becoming sam (Burnside Review Press) and All the Salty Sand in Our Mouths (forthcoming from Airlie Press). His writing focusses on the Sri Lankan Civil War, poverty & underdevelopment, colonial & imperial atrocities, and disproportionate impacts of climate change on rural & marginalized communities. He works at Hamilton College.

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