Erosion keeps on trying

I'm always stuffy when a tabby cat
licks my eye, and every last August,
every last Tuesday sits in my stomach

in my old yellow room, where I know
the ceiling from so many sets of eyes,
a ceiling that has no answers.

The color underneath my walls is blue.
It sits above a lemon I was born out of,
and hides underneath the yellow

that has found its way back. And my bath
is the only bath my ankles know
how to bend into; I’m terrified of lime grime

in every other, the kind that bites
the edges and scrapes white noise
underneath a wary fingernail

until my lunch tastes green. But while I know
yellow rooms and ceilings and baths
and a way to place a floral wallpaper

over my cornea and see things in small pattern,
i'm fucking terrified i'll forget to keep
yellow rooms and ceilings and baths

out of the haystack when the needle
forgets to bite the hay; memories
that don't jostle won't come back,
wallpaper will cover all those yellows,

and how will I wonder about
how my bones know I'm home,
and know how to melt into these old beds?

How will I wonder about asking the night
questions anymore about if feet
can get used to dirt; and why are we getting

un-used to it? Why can't I remember
what time it is in Spain
and if the persimmon tree will be blooming?

Why aren't my blood vessels
sculpted out of steel?
Then, I realize the whistle of my worth

is poking my ear drum like that iridescent pencil
in the second grade right now,
while I sit here with my low blood pressure

and histamines, worrying about how
I’ll forget what it’s worth
knowing how to keep.