By Kristin Roybal
I’m trying not to find the
way out of Stella and into
peach fuzz Macy’s way
of life—all hard lemonade
and dad’s rifles from the
1880s. If you didn’t fly to
Arizona on the weekend I
would have kept the final
countdown underneath the
guardrail of the inner
mission—that the rest of
your friends had a break-
through while I had a
30-piece bucket of
chicken wings. Flying over
the mountains I conceded that
my time was over and I would
not have the opportunity again
in this lifetime to fly past the
underwhelming adventures
of Lulu the paper duck. She
had breasts that were marinated in
coffee and black currant jam
and I had a pearl and seven
oysters found in the used trunk
of an unimpressive vehicle that
I didn’t notice was missing
until you signaled me over the
radio with your walla and your
white flag
Clutching at Straws 