after my mother dies, the cable box turns on, flashing channel and
I take as sign: 2:37 becomes 57, my age; channel 7, number of completion
according to Bible; 11, balance and teamwork.
Orange digits in wee hours unnerve my husband and me.
speak to my shaman girlfriend, who says things can be done
to help people on their way. Next night, a transformer’s pop!
Neighbors’ audible Uh-oh as lamps and screens fade.
Flames smoke the yard across the street; buried wires ignite.
my window bench, I watch firemen in yellow and black
whose flashlights catch my face behind blinds.
Like Moses I ask, How can this be?
Could her rage take down a block?
broke the ceramic plant basket the funeral home returned;
as my car turned, it tipped and cracked. Most of my life I tried to get
away from her and now, indignant, I tell my friend,
My mother is gone; no message or dream.
Dad, uninvited, invades unconscious hours.
Sleepless, I ask, Where are you? That night,
the box glows again, the number 2.