Stabat mater dolorosa Stood the mother weeping Over the coffin of her son She was holding a photo of him In a frame Her son a soldier, aged twenty-five * The mother didn’t shout, she wasn’t loud A pretty young woman in black clothes Her pain was decent and deep Not ostentatious She didn’t beat
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I guess it can’t be too often that two people can laugh and make love, too, make love because they are laughing, laugh because they’re making love. The love and the laughter come from the same place: but not many people go there. (If Beale Street Could Talk, p. 15) Love, its absence, and its
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LeipGlo contributor and artist Glenn Horvath shares his short story "The Assassin" about a US international living in rural Germany.
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Our wonderful Literary Parlor returns with a very special holiday edition: Svetlana interviewed some of her Gen Z students and they share some of their own poetry with us.
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