Eucalyptus

Mothers go at dusk in summer to where young 
trees line the back driveway of the City Hall, 

their green camphor scent a steady 
vein beneath the heat. They'll pull 

at lower branches to gather tender leaves, 
then bear these home in paper bags to dry 

in bunches, to keep under glass for the rainy 
months. At home, towel over my head, I bend 

my face toward a basin of hot water in which 
leaves steep, waiting for curled fingers 

of steam to loosen my chest tight 
with sadness and phlegm, remembering 

how poultices drew me out of fever dreams 
and oils could make my limbs forget 

their hurt before lizards fell, 
another green rain from the rafters.