Athazagoraphobia
Fear of Being Ignored

I used to bury plum pits between houses,
buried bits of wire there too, used to bury matches,
but nothing ever burned and nothing ever thrived,
so I set fire to a mattress, disassembled
a stereo, attacked flies with a water pistol,
drowned ants in perfume. I pierced my eyebrow,
inserted a steel bar, traded metal for a scar in a melee,
pressed tongue to nipple in a well lit parking lot,
swerved into traffic while unbuttoning my shirt.

There is a woman waiting for me to marry her
or forget her name forever—whichever
loosens the ribbons from her hair.
I’m filling the bathtub for an enemy, licking
the earlobe of my nemesis, trying
to dance like firelight
without setting anyone ablaze, I’m leaning
over the railing of a bridge, counting.
Counting higher. Seeing my face
at the bottom—it’s everywhere now. Look for me

in scattered windshield beneath an overpass,
on a sculpture of a man with metal skin grafts,
in patterns on mud-draggled wood, feathers
circling leaves in rainwater—look. Even the blade
of a knife holds my likeness, while I run
out of ways to say I am here.