by NATE BROCK
When you came towards me from that giant tin can, I could hardly see you: surrounded by bright lights and flashed from your vehicle. You called my name and spoke in something I couldn’t understand. You looked at me, your glowing eyes fixated on mine, and eagered me into something of you. Without relieving my corneas from your collection of pupils, I got into the passenger seat of my typical hatchback and you came gliding in to take the stern of it.
You drove away from your transport until the desert and us was all there was. A motel approached us from down the road, with a twitching sign and dust clouds that rolled in from the desert plane. When we were inside the room, you looked at me with some of your eyes. The moonlight glazed in through the window down on your pasty skin, down on my fleshy skin. “Take me to your leader,” you said, and when you entered me with that thick tube, your mouths made noises and patterned eyeballs became sporadic. We shifted about within the stained sheets, moaning all night until your green pigment shifted pale and my skin was red and wet and we were mesmerized by each other and the number of eyes and mouths we each had.