January

By: Lane Dever

I am using a polaroid of us standing

in front of a hotcake house in Northern Michigan as a bookmark.

I am pinning it to my wall when I have nothing

new to read. There is a leak in this house. It flows

in a single straight line, ceiling to floor.

I am doing everything I can

to fix it, but the night I’m out on the first date with her—

the girl who tells me about these queer kids

on rollerblades who play pickup hockey

in the downtown mall parking garage,

and how we should join them: make a documentary

about their lives, or otherwise join a commune in the desert

somewhere in Arizona.

That’s the same night that the leak bursts.

Water covering everything.

That’s the night I realize, the little note you left

on the back in blue pen, along with

the date, has been completely washed away.

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Lane Devers regrets to inform you he is from Carbondale, Colorado. He is a sophomore at Reed College. His work can be found in The Adroit Journal, DREGINALD, Juked, and elsewhere.