Days after my mother dies, the cable box turns on, flashing channel and times
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.
I 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.
From 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?
She 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.
Even Dad, uninvited, invades unconscious hours.
Sleepless, I ask, Where are you? That night,
the box glows again, the number 2.