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.