Never Again
Jennifer Choi

i broke open the door to your home—
there was no one left to let me in.

what was the password to your life?
you, who no longer rent space in this world,
left no answer.
so i borrowed a locksmith’s hands
to step into what remains of you.

shoes that seem ready to walk out the door.
plates scattered across the table.
clothes still draped on the drying rack.
withered plants in cracked pots.
books & notebooks abandoned on your desk.

things, kneeling in quiet surrender,
neither clean nor dirty anymore.

a chair that will never seat you again.
a bed that will never hold your rest.
a blanket that will never warm you.
a mirror that will never reflect you.
a key that will never lock you in.
a half-written letter that will never
find its way to the mailbox.

again, & never again—
this phrase circled the air, powerless.
but most of all, this Sunday,
without you,
will never repeat.
even if the withered plants bloom again,
they cannot bring you back.