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Case File for Something that Refuses to Be Gone, Kumar Sen

Case File for Something that Refuses to Be Gone Case file opens without sound. Ink arrives before record.   Item 001: a spoon still warm from a hand that no longer agrees it existed. Item 002: a childhood afternoon, folded wrong, returned unsigned. Item 003: the tone of my name when spoken by someone already rehearsing absence.   The clerk does not look up. Absence files more cleanly when unseen.   I am asked to describe what is missing without weather, without grief, without anything that suggests breath.   So I comply.   It was here. It learned not to be.   The difference is administrative.   A stamp drops like judgment without witness.   The file thickens with what cannot be retrieved but insists on remaining legible.
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Death in Tangerine, Lee Summers (June 2026)

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On the Death of a Christian Child, E.J. Hutchinson (June 2026)

On the Death of a Christian Child (after a poem in the Latin Anthology ) You were noble. You were innocent and young. You died and, dying, wrung out tears from all. But since the mind unstained approaches heaven, And for the just lies open heaven’s hall, Let us praise, damning tears, your young demise, Who, hurried to the stars, now sinless shine. The swiftness of your death, happy for you, Proves not that you were callous to my sighs, But that you so pleased God he’d not delay To bring you home to paradise today.
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Love In Memoriam, Marie Burdett (June 2026)

  Love in Memoriam At night I long for you. For all the darks we spent, euphoric with young love. The blush of sunset pounded in my chest. The sparks of stars gleamed in your eyes. And summer, lush   with greens that burst and swayed and grew, with pinks that hazed the sky, embraced us like a bubble. We made the promises of youth that thinks love is an easy thing.                                       I’m in that rubble now, and I gasp like wind on barren spaces. The harvest moon casts quiet shafts of cold. Slow combines stubble corn. The fireplace is waiting for your return to be consoled.   Your chair, still warm, does not believe you’re gone. What does it take for dark to turn to dawn?
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First Memory: Soft-Boiled Egg, Lisa Barnett

  First Memory: Soft-Boiled Egg Lunchtime; I’m in my highchair throne. My mother aims the hated spoon of soft-boiled egg at my bud-tight mouth: the warm and almost liquid yolk, the not-quite done-right albumen.   She’s insistent, importunate, so I open up; the spoon goes in. Years later, she confessed: she found the eggs disgusting too. “But good for you, soft-boiled eggs,” she said.
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