Emily Jukich is an emerging poet and writer who's spent much of her life in the Midwest. Much of her writing focuses on mental health and the struggles unseen of those afflicted. Her writing takes its time to find the right words to salve wounds and explore both the light and the dark of being different. There's a part in all of us that want to be heard and to believe our voices matter and she is working to find her voice through writing and healing and hopes to go back to school to get her Masters in creative writing one day. When not holding a pen, her and her new husband find time to enjoy all the quiet times with their 4 fur babies and walking around their local parks.
Those stalks of strength Tall fields of wanting Faces turned towards their God as if to mimic her while sunbeams grow from cotton petals I see them, their awkward limbs yearning to follow while a single cloud can blind them Van Gogh’s anguish in oil pastel Necks bowed in prayer for the lost deity There are days I turn my back on this sunflower nonsense Chasing a mischievous force whose light shines elsewhere to say “This today, is not for you.”
Murder in the Summertime
A body in the grass, motionless in the afternoon heat I woke---blades kissing punctures up my arm, a pattern of ornate, bleached lace pressed on my wrist. Standing, that crushed patch of earth wears my body like a birthmark A crime scene A bullet reminder that just for a moment, existence happened here.
Puckered edges of spoiled milk Decay of soft linen across the velvet swatch of petals They are dead memories Nostalgic mirrors Once full of need, full of want held in suspension long past their prime I keep them on my table to remind myself flowers are just as beautiful when they are wilting
If we must be ashes
Tiny flame Crackling heartbeat That tender joust we play between flicker and blaze.
Not love, no. That’s too porcelain. Too pirated from so many others who believe we should burn.
I’ve no interest in lighting the sky on fire,
but it seems in all scripture, there cannot be love without heat.
So darling, if we must let us be phoenixes. For if we are to burn, let us live through it a thousand times.
Ode to the Reader
All words are stolen. That is the threat of language. Yet, all I want is to give you the first words
The words that belong to only you to tuck behind your ears and spread along your footprints to make tracks within your soul
I want you to know your beauty is more than a metaphor simply from the way you speak because yes,
there is honey on your lips from every gentle, wild, stringy vowel you’ve let slip
Where consonants sound like constellations for me to ladle stardust and drip that silver broth along your tongue
For how can you be both sky and earth and every element love-pressed into my pages
You are so much more than what I can gift you that hasn’t already been spoken
That I would commit theft to hear you howl rather than make love to silence is a merciful violence.
There is nothing and everything to describe this. The largest word ever uttered. A hummingbird’s stamina.