Prism

I moved to a city with no clouds

and I hoped to find myself -

I found orange buses, sloping hills,

tall palm trees, grey and sparse,

CBD/THC rainbow belts,

earthy, glistening birria tacos,

neon signs on contemporary architecture,

and red flakes in jars of kimchi.

Born in the magic city,

I thought I was incomplete -

but I was raised on a silver metro line,

fat palm trees, grandiose in emerald,

simply layered balleadeas,

marinated, juicy brown mojo pork,

off-white coral adjacent art deco in pastels,

and bits of purple radish bundled in shawarma.

Having walked in both, my memories flood -

fragrant, poignant, full of life.

I lived this?

Sometimes, I close my eyes and reach out,

desperate for ruddy shadows in the dark,

flying, muddling my reality.

Although we are evergreen, I cling to a textured past.

I open my eyes and touch a prism.