Wanting to Own a Painting is like Wanting Love
By Erin Wilson
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The painting I want
hangs on a wall and at the same time hammers the rose light on the inside of my eyelids. Its price— flows through my fingers like water. Its images are immaterial— almost. The colour has been wrangled into cages by the membranes of cells. It's here my desire painfully incubates. Colour is—five eggs. But if you crack them, six winged creatures fly away. BlueweedBy Erin Wilson
You were near the blueweed;
the blueweed was significant. You were never near the blueweed; the blueweed is significant. You had heard of blueweed and longed for it; the blueweed is significant. The blueweed seeded itself. The blueweed seeds itself. SaffronBy Erin Wilson
All those times
sick, alone. Or later, all those times alone but fine (and better for it). It was not as they would report it, when we came together. It wasn't one below and one above. It wasn't two, one beside the other. It was but one flower inside one flower. It was but one flower, monstrous with world. ZaffreBy Erin Wilson
My grief is blue.
Your grief is blue. Our grief is not the same colour.  Erin Wilson's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in CV2, Columba, The Prairie Journal, The Literary Review of Canada, Canthius, Juniper, Minola Review, Salamander Magazine, The Shore, Poetry Ireland Review, and in numerous other publications and anthologies internationally. At Home with Disquiet is her first collection. She lives in a small town on Robinson-Huron Treaty territory, the traditional lands of the Anishnawbek.
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