Eucalyptus

Enormous eucalyptus peeling
rolls of bark, skinny leaves
I mixed in a bowl and fed to the stuffed koala
I took everywhere, tucked in my armpit,
on the road to the beach
my mother slipped
on the three-sided pods
we called buds, first time
I saw blood running down her leg,
gone now, taken out in the ’80s,
as the invasives they were,
like us, only they lived there all year,
for many years, condemned
along with the ice plant
that covered nearly every embankment,
still smell them, a reflex,
my grandmother’s salt-and-pepper schnauzer
who smelled like the beach,
piles of washed-up kelp
floats I’d jump on to pop,
without the trees, room for a path,
boardwalk over dunes
protecting plants, a threatened lizard,
no need to walk on the side
of the road where buds collected,
roots pushed against edges of asphalt,
cars came fast around the curves, still do.