A poem by Anna Enquist

Plea to the artist

My solid ground of tongue and sound

is time-bound. Not so she. I ask

your help. When with my warm

hand’s blood-filled weight I’d touch her

nothing’s there. Your palette’s fourteen

colours, your brush of fox’s hair –

caress her forth now, at her ear

green shadow and her neck a trace

of yellow ivory. Find her a place

in your canvas threads. Then call

me in. You’re at the window staring.
I stand five feet away and see.

She looks at me.

To hear the translation read, go to here