The Thing About Hell
Matt Kolbet


 
The thing about hell, the chemistry
professor says, as if there’s only one,
is that it doesn’t make sense. Fires 
that burn without end. Noise. Hot air.
He instructs us to forget about smoke
and the space it needs to pour into,
so I set aside battlefields and consider 
how money from the G.I. bill lowers 
my financial aid, how much loans 
weigh, if hell is part of any equation,
the class purview, or better served by 
painting, writing stories. What about fuel?
Radiation with a half-life of forever.

The class is quiet. I sit in the middle of 
the room, hoping to pass unnoticed. Not 
enough wood or coal, inadequate heat or 
oxygen are the sticking points for the 
teacher, allow him to conclude without 
considering the blaze of immortal souls.
He moves on to heaven, dismisses it not 
for an overabundance of harps or robes,
but joy: no person can be content for so long.

​Where’s the core? He demands measurement
of sanity first and cast-iron fact second, a 
bond he can calculate, a diagram to show how 
to believe. That’s when I raise my hand and 
show him a drawing I’ve made, a doodle while 
he’s lectured, wondering if he’ll see the 
pineal gland, Horus’ eye, or at least a third 
one, some elusive valence--lymph node 
dreams—in what I’d meant to be a self portrait,
and whether I’m happy with the picture.











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About the Author: Matt Kolbet teaches and writes in Oregon. His second novel, Lunar Year, was published by Champlain Avenue Books last year. 

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