Those First Seven Seconds
I saw eyelashes batting. I smelled perfume wafting. Love was with femininity. Love was art and motion. It becomes relevant those first seven seconds. Everything is computed in spirit. A soul to its powers. A woman to her decision. Sheer aesthetic charms and familiarity. Over steaks with onions … creamy baked potatoes … and dark red berries. A man to his thoughts. Surreal and
thus kind gestures. Nothing lives like us. Nothing rushes to die its rebirth like us. Maybe Alfredo seasoned lightly with shell designed pasta … a light white grape …. I have lived with ideals, measured by a phoenix mind. I sense a desire to be lost in the beloved. I, too, desire to be nurtured and protected by the beloved. Those first seven seconds, a soul knows astronomy, has
examined paleontology, and has reserved an outing with famous anthropologists. In fire, we chance life. In flame, we die our insecurities. By ascension, we rise from a sealed cave. I have yet to speak to luxuries, pushcart awards, career acclaim, devilish passion, sacrifice and moods. I take flight into an aura. I fiddle and knit. I see majesty in woman. I am received in spirit. Life has
no vacancies. Love is engrained. We picture drying asphalt. So much said over red beans and rice, fried Louisiana chicken and corn, coupled with Northern lemonade.
Glenn Marchand is a poet-writer born in Los Angeles, California, where he received his M.F.A in Creative Writing. He was introduced to poetry as an adolescent. Poetry and prose became a therapeutic outlet. And he has been creating ever since. He has publications with Ginosko Literary Journal 33, Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters, Bitter Melon Review and others. Marchand is pleased to present this submission, in a hope to share poetic art.
