from “Decorporeal”



The adage is that literature and art are all

about sex and death, but I didn’t come


to watch people die. A lack of sexual desire

doesn’t mean I don’t comprehend passion.


I’ve read Donne. I’ve seen St. Teresa’s Ecstasy.

I know of the three-person God who battered


both their hearts. Kurt Schwitters consciously broke

from all previous traditions by prioritizing


art objects over naturalistic paintings.

As did many of the avant-garde.


He stopped replicating
the world in order to bring three-dimensional


corporeality onto the canvas, and saw everything

as forces he could pit against each other.


His art is a sliver of the world, isolated
in its congealing as it happened. Any chaos


transpired by chance, not intent. We were like this too.

We fought over directions to Empire Cafe


(Yeah, I know, I’ve driven by there a million times.

Fuck. You made me forget what I was going to say.)


which meant we were really fighting
about whether you would stay, if you could pretend


to be happy with me. Melancholic
is how Margot described me that night, a word


that’s supposedly the default affect of queer love.

At least that’s what 19th century literature,


film and television from the 80’s and 90’s,
and my queer theorist former neighbor all tell me.


Maybe melancholy was the wrong word for us.

Maybe gay was always the wrong word.


Or maybe over time gay rotted out
of the fruit basket of words for happiness.


Over time I rotted out
of the word gay. Did you ever think so


at home when your body called and pulled

at my heart in an unspoken whisper. Come,


join me in bed. Eventually I would.

It just took a while.

from “Decorporeal”



You said the lack of seasons


made you lose track of the months,


which made me think about the distance


you were building between us, longer hours


with your office door closed.


You stopped kissing me


when I got home. Don’t be so cold.


Summer didn’t end so much


as it flattened like water.


Once, we’d grab each other’s hands


and blow into them when we felt


the crisp brush of autumn. Before then


I never saw another body


as an extension of pleasure (an object).


I never saw an object as a person, never


called my car by a name which my friend


Gwen thought was weird. We were


in college. Made-out


at a party (I was bisexual then) continued


to the back of her car (Stephanie). Later


I told her I don’t know, the space


of my car just feels like an extension of me.


I know what everyone’s thinking, and yes,


phenomenology is my astral sign.

Anthony Sutton resides on former Akokisas, Atakapa, Karankawa, and Sana land (currently named Houston, TX), as an Inprint C. Glenn Cambor fellow at the University of Houston’s Creative Writing and Literature PhD program, teaches in the community for Grackle and Grackle, and is the author of the poetry collection Particles of a Stranger Light (Veliz Books, 2023). An alum of the currently under thread MFA program at Purdue University, Anthony’s poetry has appeared in guesthouseGulf Coast, Grist, The Journal, Prairie Schooner, Puerto del Sol, Oversound, Quarter After Eight, Southern Indiana Review, Zone 3, the anthology In the Tempered Dark: Contemporary Poets Transcending Elegy, and elsewhere.