Poetry: What Happens Happens in the Body

You are not a windchime. You feel this
when it’s ten below and the window
falls out of the storm door and though
there is another door behind that one—

because this is the way with storm doors:
they protect—soon enough you have to
replace the strip of framing, you have to
admit you threw out when it fell out

in July as if it were never important.
It was. It was always coming for you,
this or that bit of significant plastic
dislodged by one predictable destructive

action. Cue sharp ice forming on a super-
efficient furnace exhaust: it’s exactly what
they kept saying about the sublime: how
it happens in the body and it hurts.

-Sarah Barber, Word Riot

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