Ethel Beauregard is Not Dead

Ethel Beauregard is not dead

By Jayla Martin

Ethel Beauregard is not dead.
Ethel Beauregard is alive.
She died, not with a choked gasp, scream
Not metal or a screech
Ethel Beauregard died of paper cuts on her fingers and face
She died, not of heartbreak, but of a heart made whole too many times.

She did not die with her whole life ahead of her,
For she was old, and knew better than to dream,
Nor with her whole life before her eyes
But thinking only of one place…

Somewhere in the world there is a procession of weepers, dressed in black, and circling an open grave.
I am not there.
I am in a library.
A forgotten corner
Full of yellowing books of poetry and light from a single window,
a wooden chair, and a single desk
And perhaps I knew her better than anyone else:

For she did not die full of courage, strength or humility,
But full of brass keys to unopened locks to unopened rooms that lay old and forgotten,
She died full of yellowed letters, tragedy unread
She did not live of cloud and light
But of wood and dust she is buried
As she always was.

She did not die of old age
It was not old age that killed her

Don’t look for her in a hole, or at a grave of stone.
She is not there.
Ethel Beauregard is buried here
In the forgotten corner of a library
Among yellowing books of poetry
In the light from the window
Among spines of poems that mourn and weep the emotions never read
The forgotten poetry of the unnamed thousand
Covered in dust

Ethel Beauregard is not dead
For she lives in the corners of a library
Where forgotten things go to rest.
<strong>Jayla</strong> <strong>Martin</strong>
Jayla Martin

I am a devoted poet and aspiring journalist in Greensboro, North Carolina who writes to perceive and interpret the world around me.

As someone with an innate affinity for words, I always want to get better at my writing and pursue it throughout my life.

When I’m not busy studying or helping with my local poetry club, I’m spending time in my own head daydreaming or I’m trying to rope friends into an impromptu card game.

Instagram: @wethetragedy

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Daisy

Daisy, Poetry by Gabriel Sanchez-Jorgensen

The absurdity of your petal
Was a curse on grey November.
As the toothed grin of summer
Who drove her spear into fall-red leaves,
I admire your courage
To stand just so,
Before the snow.
<strong>Gabriel Sanchez-Jorgensen</strong>
Gabriel Sanchez-Jorgensen

I moved to California from Costa Rica in 2013. Currently, I study history at UCLA. After I graduate, I’m going to move back to Costa Rica to develop my writing. I enjoy sitting on my patio while reading Jorge Luis Borges and Charles Simic all day long. Follow Gabriel’s poetry on Instagram: @monday_ghost.

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Love Floats, a poem

Love Floats a poem

A poem by Deanna M Ramirez

Love floats in the air⠀
like a dandelion seed⠀
Spread love ⠀
through this dark world ⠀
of desperate greed⠀
Greed feeds on the ⠀
helpless, destroying ⠀
the heart⠀
Let love fly and take root ⠀
wherever you are

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