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"Desert Highway with No Windshield" by Crystalline Nixon

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i remember zipping down a desert highway with no windshield,

letting sand and rocks and lizards fly

into my face and pound my eyeballs into pulp

while i held your hand and you watched laughing,

catching tumbleweeds between your teeth.

i was your bowling ball,

the oily eight pound sphere you rolled along

that slick forbidden bridge,

knocking down as many pins as would have pleased you, and

faithfully returning on the hidden track beneath.

i was your half completed masterwork,

contrapposto man with empty eyes and archaic smile,

my torso rising from a block of unchipped marble,

while you used your chisel and hammer to cut flapjacks.

i remember the night my car was rolling

down an inky backroad beset upon by trees,

your brights rising from the trees like binary stars.

i flashed my own at you, while white spots bloomed across my eyes,

and as we passed, you flashed yours back.