July 31, 2026 [Issue 48] It Isn’t Wind We’re Measuring, Mark Katrinak

There is no measurement for spirit’s pain.
We measure snowfall, rain, the wind’s intensity,
read systole over diastole, approximate
the height of flames, not trauma through the eyes.
The tortured psyche’s pent up in its cave;
the exit’s closed, the exit never was.
She took a thousand steps inside and stepped
a thousand more beyond herself. She stared
off from the edge of the world, she was so sure
the Earth was round and true but violence kept
her from retracing steps to who she was,
that what was love had tallied into threat—
the husband’s fingers rearranged were rough
and love became a frightening terrain.