OXIDANT | ENGINE : Issue 12
Anthony Sutton
from Decorporeal
There’s the Post-structuralist saying not
to use the first-
person pronoun—how can I
be me when you are
for yourself, me?—and also a bio
I read on twitter
saying Pronouns: Don’t
refer to me,
which means the only thing
left in this ghost-world
is you, which is good since
this self has been walking
all day and passed the park,
only seeing broad impressions
of the color green, looked
at concrete and whispered
like bone. There’s an ember
that this self’s ribs
clasp like a fist. It becomes
a heart, when you say
the word. The leafless trees
reach for the moon
because you tell them to.
Which is to say that there might
be nothing when you aren’t
speaking. Of course,
you’ve never read Peirce,
or any semiotic theory
so you can’t even hear it,
you don’t even know
who the object is in all of this
when we come
together.
from Decorporeal
And so maybe my true form is air,
which has no density or physical
properties other than chemical
bonds that form it. You didn’t like this
thought. I know. You liked pressing me
against the wall, leaning in
for a kiss. Running your hands
along my thighs and waist as I
shifted my weight to straddle
your knee. It all traced
the signifiers that mark me
as man (which you liked). Like how
Dante said God wrote
humanity’s name (homo,
latin, of course) onto
our very skulls. When the eyes
and nose rot out, the sockets
spell out O-M-O, which
I’m sure you appreciate
is the name for man. Air leaves you
with nothing to grasp. I’m sorry.
My signifiers don’t match
my contents. If they did
I would not be
of this world.
Anthony Sutton resides on former Akokiksas, Atakapa, Karankawa, and Sana land (currently named Houston, TX) and has had poems appear or forthcoming in Zone 3, Gulf Coast, The Journal, Passages North, Prairie Schooner, Puerto del Sol, Quarter After Eight, Southern Indiana Review, and elsewhere.