looks like we shifted to a timeline where joni mitchell’s both sides now didn’t start a revolution

by Janna Miller

People wear crocs all the time, to business meetings, with formal wear. There are whole threads on how to keep shoes from sliding and damaging bamboo socks.

Children sleep when they are supposed to and not just when adults check on them. They slip from maternal protection to compliance with only a nagging feeling that maybe, somewhere, woodblocks that stack into palaces and zombies are real.

There are equal numbers of butterflies that migrate to Mexico as fake accounts that implore us to remember teachers knew what they were signing up for, that leftover food creates better compost, and only female trees make pollen that sticks in our throats.

Once, we could dive into lakes and pools, as freely and slippery as fish. Now, we stare at water as it sparkles and reflects the shadows of lounge chairs and lifeguards, our dry toes curled on the edge of scorching concrete.

Music on the radio sometimes breaks through. Deep beneath the static, guitar chords sync and people hold hands, looking over not to see if everyone is dancing, but if people who want to dance are allowed to. There is someone who still sings about clouds and love and life not being perfect, but being imperfect and singing anyway.

Photo of Janna Miller

BIO: Librarian, mother, and minor trickster, Janna has published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Shenandoah, Fractured LIt, Best Microfiction, and others. Her story collection, All Lovers Burn at the End of the World was published by ELJ Editions in 2024. Generally, if the toaster blows up, it is not her fault.