by Maiya Joy
legend has it that, generations ago,
my mother’s mother and her people
sliced their skin open over the
naked Earth, packed their blood into
the weave of the trees’ shells, and grew leaves.
they operate with a steady hand,
an open heart, and plenty of time,
regardless of how many years of rings
may grow through their core; their words
move mountains with a single inflection,
yet with a temperament that could
still a restless sea —
and, by the nature of opposition,
my mother’s father was born blood
straight from volcanic lava and his heredity
has been nothing but eruptive
ever since. with a presence heavier than
than the ash that falls, a pristine layer of
white, in the midst of chaos, they breathe
oxygen back into the air where there was
none left to begin with; every brushstroke
leaves the world a bit more beautiful
than it had been before, walking on fire
with a careful tread —
they may not see it, the people
with only a kind smile and a pair of
freshly-shined work boots to their name —
they may not understand
that we wear our feet bare as we
work along the earth, so that we
can feel how the tectonic plates blush
as they ask one another to dance.
Maia Joy is a queer biracial poet and musician from Boston, MA. A two-time Silver Key recipient from the Massachusetts Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, she is currently studying music and creative writing at the University of Maryland, College Park, where she is a member of the Jimenez-Porter Writers’ House. Some of her work can be found in Star 82 Review and Dreams Walking, as well as on her social media @maiajoyspeaks, and her website, maiajoyspeaks.wixsite.com/website.
