gabby mijalski-fahim

Letter to Shane McCutcheon from the L Word

Shane, how do you make sad eyes and dead-plant droop so endearing?
Teach me how to harmonize a gray hoodie and the bedhead helm of a tired knight,
how to sag mistreated jeans with a preview of an inviting mold,
how to parade rose-bud nipples through the seams of a sleeveless vest
with the classiest classlessness.

Shane, railings thank you for snuffing out your cigarettes with such grace
and I wonder when one masters the art of effortlessness
as I watch your skinny fingers rope around a set of keys
like an unsanctified rosary, in the hands of the most gentle devil.

Shane, have you always been a warning to the man? The kind whose badge of masculinity
hangs by a loose pin, the kind who courts women who take too long to come.
Shane, teach me how to make owl eyes at a smart femme without calling her
Therapy. Teach me how to make my sadness sexy- specifically,
teach me how to sulk in oversized polos like Mad Men’s shiniest token dyke.
Shane, what is it like to walk into a room, be seen and consumed by every
person? They always stop to listen and wallow in the gravel of your voice-
I would too; they indulge in the handsome way you wear your pain.

Shane, when the binary reigns, how do you remain lawless?
My vanilla queerness wants to know. My obvious, but compromising
queerness wants to know. Shane, teach my queerness how to scream,
how to kickflip off a halfpipe, stain its plywood with blood and use
my sweaty bandana as an arm cast, then shotgun three Millers without
gags. Shane, today I’ll try out effortlessness.

Gabby is a 24 y/o labor organizer living at the mercy of her cat in the somber state of Oregon. Her words are forthcoming and featured in West Trade Review, Passengers Journal, Prometheus Dreaming, and elsewhere.