Weather Alert

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.


Meg Eden's work is published or forthcoming in magazines including Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, Poet Lore, RHINO and CV2. She teaches creative writing at the University of Maryland. She has five poetry chapbooks, and her novel "Post-High School Reality Quest" is published with California Coldblood, an imprint of Rare Bird Books. Find her online at or on Twitter at @ConfusedNarwhal.