Chicken

(As in the movies, when the traffic swerves
and skids to miss the hero in its way . . .)

He toddled through the cars as if to play
a game of chicken with his mother’s nerves.
She wept to see him standing there, across
the other side, her perfect smiling boy.
All rosy-cheeked with death-defying joy;
An icon of her momentary loss.

It wasn’t quite a miracle. Not quite,
but close. Not Lazarus, or snake and rod.
Not water into wine, but who’s to say?
She held him up just like an acolyte
would lift a cup, commending him to God,
beholding him like Jesus, born today.

—David Condell