Glenn Marchand

a bit silly. taken laughter seriously. 
reminiscing upon a mitten. 

running by cornfields plucking
sugarcane, listening to raindrops.

a soaked cap, a screaming guitar, 
insides made of romance.

smoky club. rubescent lips. 

under a table sits a dusty jar, rusty 

eyes bat. legs touch. some say 
weather is fair. 

i was traveling inside, down an old 
pathway, stumbling over emotion. 
butterflies. unopened feelings. an 
unzipped sensation. filled with zest, 
garden verve, a family of hopes. 
dying there—abused there—too 
serious there. a stern smile, jagged 
lines, furious feelings. trees situated, 
learning life, a carving having to end. 
an old, long-gone van—a ball as 
witness, a dirty/filthy garland. i heard 
mother passed. we couldn’t keep eye 
contact. we hugged, looking at 
aftermath, too easy to awaken. 

feeling left somewhere. fighting 
desperation. getting lost in my 

eating cabbage with a carpenter 
showing much remorse. 

Glenn Marchand has an M.A. in Theology from Loyola Marymount University, and finished his requirements in the MFA Creative Writing program at Mount Saint Mary’s University. Marchand is an African American, focused on writing about existential truths, topics seeming apparent, or better, life’s aphorisms. Marchand believes in connectivity, a mystic universe, and the beauty in energy.