An Account

My dad planted a tree for me and my siblings when each of us was born. We would take pictures next to our trees on our birthdays, measuring ourselves against that year’s growth. I always loved that, because it said so much about who my dad was and what he loved. He loved us, and he loved plants, and he loved to care and nurture, and watch things thrive. It was such a small gesture that seemed so full of meaning. I remember how perfectly suited my scraggly oak tree seemed for warm summer days, golden sunlight pouring…

A poem

Happiness is shaped
like a remarkably unpleasant bus ride,
where every bump is an assault
an intrusion
on the useful little fortress I’ve built
against the morning commute.

You see,
I’d stuffed my ears with wax
and let my eyes lead my mind to another,
hypnotizing world,
but the one around me kept insisting,
on making its presence known
with every lurch of the speeding metal box
that runs on explosions
and weighs two tons
and is boring.

There is a nuclear event in far away space
that is electing to shoot its photons
neatly off that gaudy BMW’s

A poem

Fresh cut grass is every morning
I spent chasing shadows
on an endless field,
when now was an ever-present glow
to soak in
and tomorrow was a thing someone
told me was likely to happen, in the
brief moments they could count on
me listening before I bounded out again.

It’s what we leave behind that aches us.

My fingertips grasp around a smaller world
and lift with a sense of gravity
for the thing that used to be too heavy
to carry. …

A Short Fiction

Record’s turning somewhere down the hall, melancholy echoes from some love-drunk serenade kicking up dust as it goes. Sun’s peeking in through the fogged-out windows, between all those glass-covered cracks in the thin iron latticework, wearing that gold seems to turn the whole place burning. Room’s full of wood and books, the way it ought to be.

I close my eyes and listen to that music croon, listen the way an old man listens when he’s trying to remember the way it used to feel, trying to remember something he forgot.

There’s the Son sitting in the…

A poem

Reach out with your stretching fingers,
grasp the edges of the glass,
see above the golden future,
see below the fallen past.

As each golden grain of memory
tumbles through the narrow hall,
there is less room at the bottom
left to wonder what will fall.

Did it all seem brighter, clearer,
when more grains remained above?
Did you find more room for wonder,
did you have more space for love?

Like a faded wreath of clovers
picked and stitched by greener hands,
pale and pallor with the cost you
can’t begin to understand.

You were that colossal…

Matthew Klope

San Francisco, CA — Chemistry & Chemical Biology Ph.D. Candidate — Mixed writings of mixed quality — all images my own

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