Kristian Lundberg

Sep 5, 2024 | wordswithoutborders.org | Kristian Lundberg |Tobias Carroll |Nina Perrotta |Yoo Heekyung

Late summer or early fall—memories are unreliable Father was lying on his side In the swaying spiderweb, no spider could be seen The spider is hiding, why don’t you try touching the spiderweb But I am afraid The sound of wooden floorboards creaking Withering up for decades, Father rolled over to his other side And when he did, his scent, his warmth Just as I hadn’t touched the spiderweb, I didn’t dare touch my father’s back And so, neither the spider nor my father moved Why couldn’t I grasp...

Jul 2, 2024 | wordswithoutborders.org | Paul Wamo |Kristian Lundberg |Déwé Gorodé |Lia Galvan Lisker

Paul Wamo Reads “Blue Rebirth.” Being Black with My Own NightFour texts from a series titled “Black Fear” about my relationship with otherness during my stay in France as a black-skinned person, 2014–2019. I See HimI see him walking, he stops, he walks again, he doesn’t walk the way he did just before, it looks as though he’s sweating, he’s in a hurry, he passes by us, he sits down for a moment, his face is telling us something, what? what?

May 11, 2024 | wordswithoutborders.org | Judith Kiros |Murat Özyaşar |Kristian Lundberg |Alexander Aguayo

In color. A black man rests among the roses. He’s tired, he’s neither wounded nor dead. Petals stick to his hair like the light of winter. You turn around in your dream, bite the inside of my thigh . . . You’re right. I’m too much a coward to stay. *A sudden cold snap. Rain causes the blue mountains to rear up, stray dogs to bark loudly, it makes thin scarred cats hiss at their wet fur. The song of the mosque and the song of the church are two birds falling upward at dawn. I’m so far away.