I can’t remember if we could go home.

SUMMER IRIDESCENCE BY K DANA KING 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 132

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May drizzles dangerous nostalgia

for summers sprawled lush and limitless,

as time enchants memory into illusion.

I remember palm trees, jazz fingers flying,

mocking the tempo of an indolent breeze.

I remember dawn claiming the sky

in a fuchsia slash, a tremble of cloud

skittering above peaks still capped in snow,

star soaked, open air nights, the consolation of fire,

the murmur of fountains, the shelter of story.

But I can’t remember what waited indoors.

I remember the seductive weight

of a sleepy toddler and the salt tang,

the shell speckled grit, of beach afternoons

the siren sea flashing spangles and frothing lace,

swirling dancing feet, tingling ankles and knees.

But I can’t remember if we could go home.

I remember the flash of dragonflies

drawing pentagrams in the air, their iridescence

spawning awe and a thousand questions,

puffballs of fledgling quail erupting

through a fence, s’mores and barbecue,

vinyl and card games, Kool-Aid and wine.

But I can’t remember who I had to be.

I want to remember the whispers of lullabies

and love songs, the path of a finger down a cheek.

I want to forget the menace in a silence, the invective

in a glance, the warning in an endearment.

I want to remember that I left, and forget

that I went back, in the summer.

K DANA KING

I write because it’s how I’ve processed the world for as long as I can remember. Mostly poetry, sometimes experimental or surreal short fiction. I write about nature because it’s stunning and wise, has a quirky sense of humor, and is a steadfast sanctuary. I am drawn to exploring the silences surrounding aging, mental illness, and abuse, and to examining the related stigmas and stereotypes. One of my current goals is to produce writing that holds contradictions and invites others to understand them.