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.