to the neighborhood sequoia. I named her koya for my daughter

because naming claims. And I am covetous.

When I approach koya, I reach out to remember craving

the rough skin of another. But I am sick.

I can hardly type this my hands are so numb.

My daughter bristles when I say the word vulnerable

about my body. So I say bruised. Koya. Me.

Spongy hollows of want.

20 years ago? 40? The two of us remember musk and bounce.

The story of how to heal. This morning the sun

vibrates psychedelic. A shroud of smoke over acres lost.

5,000 in Eastern Oregon (August)

20,000 in British Columbia (September)

15,000 outside Portland (today).

My daughter can’t ride her bike to school. Particulate levels

are worse than in Bangladesh. (How do children

ride to school in Bangladesh?)

Let us pray for cool water.

Being monoecious, being all, koya is stronger

than I’ll ever be. I thirst for their strength.

The rain that won’t come for me.

October again and I have no regret for what this body has been—

lover, mother, able. On good days I logic: who isn’t dying?

Who isn’t trying to live?

My brother died of ALS at 53.

It was fast and terrible, despite my father pushing

supplements; my nephews pushing hope. There was nothing to be done.

But remember we can give our sorrow to the trees

and they give us back breath. I want to do something.

My doctor said I must box breathe three times a day. My nervous

system craves a slow heart. Multiple Sclerosis means

the smallest speck of stress sparks the nerves in my hands,

in my legs, in my brain till I can’t __________ again.

Koya’s rings tell the history of the earth, much as

my spine tells mine. I am scarred—

white planets smoldering in the dark of my back.

I am scared. I don’t need an MRI to tell me my truth, just as

I don’t need someone to say koya is in danger. Black trees on every

Oregon hillside on the way to anywhere—

Fire so hot the soil dies. (How can we watch as soil dies?)

We teach our children to place tiny seeds in the ground. To wonder

at beginnings. Love vulnerability. My daughter says, pick another word.

But I want to be soft. My neurologist says, you’re one tough mother,

as if it were a compliment to ignore pain, signs that I have been sick

for years but dismissed my body, tired and aflame.

October again. I sink down. Rest on koya. I don’t want to be strong.

I think interdependent. But it is truer to say needy. We must bend

and breathe. Think, forgive. Then listen.