Watching Mother - Libby Marsac

poetry ☆

poetry ☆

In this moment, your arms are sprigs

Wild onion, meadow garlic

That reach up towards a wooden trellis

This is where you pluck Earth gems from their vines—

White, ripe muscadines in our haven

And place them to your lips

We are here together, Mother, as one and two and

You were once swollen with me as the land

Is swollen here—verdure fruition

You take my hand, read my eyes, stretch a curl

Sweep the leaves from my lashes and give a final smile

Across the rose lips we share, inherited only centuries before

You break bread well, turn

Friends into home, homes into lush

Gardens to roam

But you burn your bread, I see this,

So that crumbs grace your fisted hands,

Views swirl of me, unripe outside our haven,

You bite too much off to chew

But scold when I follow

And for this I am just a cursed

And blessed as you.

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Libby is a multidisciplinary artist and writer who was raised in the lush wetlands of South Carolina. She is a Hollins University graduate, where she studied both creative writing and psychology. If you can catch her, you’ll most likely find her snipping images out of books for her collages, or traveling around the country with a camera in hand, capturing beauty wherever she goes. Find her on Instagram and Tiktok @scorpioswirl.