Hours before Hurricane Irene,

a man sells roses on Annapolis road.

Armageddon flowers.

Every storm is a disaster

when you grew up

with a Y2K Mom.

On instinct, I buy

stock canned foods

when buying bras at Kmart.

The sky goes grey:

I charge my phone

& fill the bathtub

with emergency water.

There are days I despise

my apocalyptic inheritance.

Other days I hold it

to my chest like

a security blanket.

My mother taught me

to be prepared, plan ahead,

always have Ritz crackers

in your purse just in case.

My mother doesn’t think

that she’s afraid: only

sensible. I like to

think I’m different than

my mother, but all of us

carry our mothers

around our necks

like Polly Pocket lockets

whether we want to or not:

pull them out, play without

knowing what our hands are doing.