“A Pearl of Truth”
Wendy Balconi
Collage
Wearing red clay crusted white patent leather church shoes that help me stoop low.
Digging my heels in like a cast iron anchor to gain the confidence to cook the green tomatoes I snuck off my Aunt Mary’s vines on a half-rusted sheet pan propped over a small fire by two cinder blocks.
Listening for whispers from the oak tree whose roots drank our secrets, stories, and spilled sweat.
Because one day I’ll need to know how to cook for my Solomon as he whistles sweet songs on a rickety tractor digging rows for field pea and okra seeds as he looks across the garden for my smile.
Whether I’m a girl or not yet a woman, I still love to dream about a life newer than the old I know.
I flip through the Bible and dictionary to figure out why we are all here, especially if it’s only to obey.
My little schoolgirl finger rests on the word pulse in the dictionary: defined as a single vibration.
I think it’s amazing my little body has an internal rhythm of electric currents, rivers, and wind.
Then I reckon it makes sense that God created time because God created ME, a ticking bundle of gears and wheels, trying to understand the “whys” as the night falls into my curls and ribbons.
In my 4th grade classroom tomorrow, I won’t raise my hand and say a word about my pulse, my Solomon, or how the God that made time made me too because Mrs. Porter wants us quiet, and funny-acting Mrs. Atkinson expects me to not have an imagination or anything worth her attention.
But in science class, I’ll tell Mrs. Geiser what my name means on the day the chrysalises we are hatching tear open at their intricate seams as new life emerges from those dark, mysterious pockets.
“Vanetta means butterfly.” I’ll whisper in her ear, and we will mirror each other’s smile and pulse.
I’ll write it all down in my secret book of the Bible named Vanetta that sits open on my heart’s shelf.
In lines of my best cursive as I ride my free will and play along, pages after days, days after pages.
Till the ink runs as dry as the red clay stuck on my shoe bottoms, far off into the walks of my tomorrows.
thaumatography:
the way stars, wind, rain, and fire
live inside your hands
and your inner peace
calms the invisible ghosts
that have plans for you
you may not see it
but the light in your shadows
heals your whole spirit
with every inhale
a natural miracle
casts an ancient spell
Kisha Edwards-Gandsy: “Born and raised in rural South Carolina, I spent two decades living in NYC after my four years at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts before returning back home in the Carolinas. While I have pursued a separate career parallel to my literary pursuits, my passion for the craft of poetry and prose continue to be central to my life’s purpose. These poems aim to answer a variation of the same question: What is the story and meaning of the eternal existence of our beautiful Earth, its inhabitants, and all of the myriad energy that calls it ‘home?’ I can be found on instagram at @scribblesandbits and am developing my literary home online at theletter.gallery.”