My Young Son Paints My Face
He does not look up,
he is struggling with a vision of me
that has no roots.
The brush in his small hand
is as thick as a besom
plunged into bone-white paper.
Eyes appear,
burning with love or impatience,
hard to tell.
The outline of a too large a head,
nose, mouth, and eyes,
purple, green and red streaks
adrift in a bubble.
Today I see again
that spaced-out image,
a garish cross-eyed mask
looking this way and that,
as it searches blindly for fatherhood.
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