Who Dreams of Us?: New Swedish-Language Writing
Whose story gets to be told?
What kind of home is it where no one dares say our son’s name
He squinted at me, swaying in the wind. Blood or soil, he asked.
The sun rose over the mountaintop in a blaze of blue and green and so the day began.
He said, this is real, and then he pulled up his shirt and showed us the scars under his arm.