self-portrait

take a selfie

in the mirror

with him.

take a picture

of the mirror.

stick your

tongues out together.

his head is a head

above you. a reflection

is a lack

of creativity. what’s a faggot

if not a series of

errors & trials. what’s a faggot

but a gathering of little

birds flapping toward

the sun. what’s a faggot

without a ministry.

oh. that’s right. just

another matchbook

waiting for fire or friction

or both.

what my father & i don’t talk about

family recipes passed 

down from your great grandmother

             (i had to ask my aunt for them)

what we look at when we look out 

the window of your Dodge Ram:               for you, 

shoddy vinyl siding 

jobs, places to hunt, a new 

wife; 

         for me,                                  the boy on the other 

                                                                                       side of the road, tight 

        dark jeans, clean shaven, femme-

                    stepped, femme-chisel, femme torso 

        like a matryoshka doll spindled 

                      onto another body

how we like our eggs

cooked

my new fashion style,            why my voice 

changes for some people, 

trilled like a dark-eyed junco

why you can’t buy new clothes 

for yourself,    why mom used to buy your wardrobe

from Dunham’s         why 

your house is blue

why i don’t say our house anymore

how i can’t be a bitch because of 

my penis

          trust me, i’m a bitch

                                                                                                                                           (& so are you)

how we’re not all dicks 

if we don’t use our turn

signals

the phrase “straight as an 

arrow”

the phrase “scared straight”

how i’m only scared 

when in your vicinity

how i’m only 

straight when in your 

                                   vicinity

how the arrow never fails 

its target

why my sister accidentally calls me 

they instead of him 

            how your chin swivels like a reclined 

            office chair at this vagueness

how there are actually many of me, 

dad

look, there must be a way for me to explain this to you

you don’t even have a bible, but we definitely don’t talk 

about it either way

if god could have three forms, can’t i have more

           than one

ghosts

            yeah, ghosts

how you’re not superstitious, but totally are, 

because our silence fogs up 

the windshield, prevents us from seeing the fox 

in the road we’re about to make 

a funeral out of

how you’re always hitting                  me with your truck, 

its rusted hulk undamaged somehow,             how its 

             your baby, a vehicle as old as me,     how 

the truck is you,            how it’s never been 

replaced,           how it’s so stuck in two-wheel drive 

that you can’t remember what 

the other settings feel like

how you snarl at rainbows 

in a flag 

                but not at the sky

maybe god, maybe 

mom, maybe what’s the difference to you 

how you feel about mom 

killing herself

i know how you felt about her, 

            i know that much

how the farm roads  

            are filled with blood,

            weed-whipped grass, cairns

            of cherry pits,

                                                  how i want more than black tartarians

                                    blotching my thighs 

how i’m the unholy 

ghost,              dad,      i’m the miscarriage,      i’m your 

          fear,                   your not-son,                             the college degree 

                       you never had,        

                                                      your fag

how i’m not              the one   

           who’s a pussy watching 

           horror movies (it’s you)

                        it’s not the blood i love

                                    it’s the blood i want 

                                    to love

Poetry by Liam Strong

Liam Strong (they/them) is a queer neurodivergent cottagecore straight edge punk writer who has earned their B.A. in writing from University of Wisconsin-Superior. They are the author of the chapbook everyone's left the hometown show (Bottlecap Press, 2023). You can find their poetry and essays in Impossible Archetype and Emerald City, among several others. They are most likely gardening and listening to Bitter Truth somewhere in Northern Michigan. Find Liam on Twitter and Instagram: @beanbie666