by Oladosu Michael Emerald Nishaan ahmed after Nikita Gill Because the sky still hangs its blue between the bombs. Because your mother’s voice is a compass needle trembling north. Because the taste of mangoes clings to your teeth like a hymn. Because the boy on the bus folded his laughter into a paper crane & left it on your seat. Because the moon, even shattered, stitches its light into the cracks of your ribs. Because your father’s hands, calloused & whiskey-stung, once cra