Christ returned, there in the middle of 6th Avenue at West 54th in front of the New York Hilton. She stood in the intersection, right in traffic, and tried to flag down a taxi. God decided to send the daughter this time. She stood with her arm raised, unperturbed by the rush of cars on either side or the cacophony of horns that blared rapid-fire. No one stopped. I passed her on my way to O’Brien’s and almost said Christ, get out of the street, are you crazy or something, but it wasn’t my business and maybe she was for all I knew. I guess it was some sort of miracle. She had that let me kiss you where it hurts look on her face but she was headed the wrong direction and I had friends waiting for me. No one seemed to recognize her, or care if they did, and no way a cab was going to stop right there in the middle of traffic. Christ— I thought. From the pub I heard a fresh blast of horns when the light changed. I hoped she got where she needed to go and had somewhere to sleep that night, someone expecting her. And I was honestly glad to think she’d come back. Lately, things had been feeling pretty messed up. Perched on a stool with my pals I lifted a glass to her and thought, well, get busy then, downed my drink and for a moment it was as if I was skating, December in Central Park, one of the only people on the ice, snow just beginning to spin.
©
is the author of Her Name is Juanita, These Metallic Days, and Some Odd Afternoon. These poems appear in Some Odd Afternoon, which is forthcoming from BlazeVOX.
Ashton is editor of the DMQ Review, and blogs at Poetry on a Stick.
We’ve published five more poems by Ashton: “Rapture,” “Donkeys also make good guard animals.,” “Same donkey, different blanket.,” “Litany,” and “This Lonesome.”
