Fall 2022 Poetry Sarah Bokich Beginnings Blackbird Michael Emery Budd Hymn John Davis In Chills My Child Chokes On Her Cough Amy L. Fair Peach Tree Georgina Marie Guardado Say, Truth Underwater, I Breathe PMF Johnson Catechism Concrete Peycho Kanev Uncertainty Janet R. Kirchheimer Landscapes with Lamb and Wolf Talk in Cabs on the Way … Read more
Fall 2021 Poetry Eneida Alcade SQ 24, Singapore to JFK Bonnie Billet A Giant Frog Squats Over the Lily Pad of Brooklyn Dear Husband These are Nights I Imagine Grant Clauser Plans We Made Emily Dexter A Horizon E. Laura Golberg Labels Ellen Goldsmith Waiting Casey Killingsworth 3:38 a.m. Robert Kramer An Old Insect Photograph … Read more
Fall 2020 Poetry C.L. Bledsoe Having A Baby to Save A Marriage A Sigh Made of Misspent Choices Ronda Broatch Days I Look for Solutions in Clouds Dear Sister, Since the Fire I Confess I’m Still Afraid of Windows Caroline Cottom 8 Bells Lorraine Jeffery Ocean Sepia Justin Lacour Pleasant Street Tom Tuttle from Tacoma … Read more
Fall 2019 Poetry Laura Bonazzoli Collage With Lies Dream of You in Which I Am on a Train Susana Case The-Dead-And-Gone-Thing Douglas Cole An Inside Job East Sounder William Derge Cormorant’s Ring* Dead Honker On The Rail Helen Doremus Change of Address An Interior Monologue Pen Pal Playing Nice Alice Fogel if or how stranded … Read more
Fall 2018 Poetry Maryam Barrie Pulling Him to Me Jeff Ewing Erato, Lorelei, & Co. Magellan Sailed on a Saturday Morning Manda Frederick Michigan, July Susan Johnson Headlights On For Safety Ready or Not Tangled Night Cameron Morse Sand Vaccines Ann Pibel Oscuridad Stigmata Donna Pucciani Folding Reverie J. Tarwood Great Pan is Dead … Read more
The Fall 2014 issue features Creative Nonfiction from Marcia Bradley, Stanzi, Frei, and Sara Walters. Fiction from Lynne M. Hinkey. Poetry from Jim Bartruff, Scott Chalupa, Carol V. Davis, Nadya Rousseau, Jeremy Voigt, Barry Yeoman and many more.
Two Hawks Quarterly Editors, Fall 2016 Pictured (left to right) From left to right Mario Gutierrez, Samantha Parker, Ashley Okonma, Will Stegemann, Deborah Lott, Nick Wenzel, Zoe Marzo, Amy Ballard, Stephanie Teasley Two Hawks Quarterly Editorial Consultants Deborah A. Lott, M.F.A. Deborah A. Lott is the author of the book In Session. Her creative nonfiction has … Read more
I met her at work at the advertising agency. I had graduated from DePaul University, and it was my first job. I got my own office; it was small, but I could shut the door and take a snooze if I had partied the night before. My parents said it would be easier for me … Read more
I This morning wrapped around my ankles the way sunlight bleached your shins in that 1935 photo. In a white and black polka dot dress that flows below your knees, you lean against a Chevrolet Standard, your left shoe glued to the car’s running board, right leg stilt straight. The sun’s light defines … Read more
I: Mama Warren said, “Just get in the cab,” and I did, and Warren told the cab driver where to go. I wasn’t even listening to where Warren told him to drive, how and when and why. I felt the wind lift up my dress, pressed it down over my slip as I got out … Read more
The insect chorus is always loudest in August. It’s the katydids. The males join the cicadas and crickets late at night near the end of summer. They sing in quick bursts of three notes a song that gives them their name: kay-tee-did. They are like gossips whispering about what poor Katie did. They are rappers … Read more
The water is bottle green, clear as the Caribbean. We can see the boulder-strewn bottom fifteen feet down. I paddle the canoe into position offshore in front of a red maple that hangs into the water a cool shadow for the bass to lurk in. An old fallen tree is splayed across the lake bottom … Read more
I’d left Nick once before. I remember when I left. 2006. The walls of the Echo Park squat where he was staying were pressboard. Black. Brown. Whorled with hibiscus. Soot. Pressed hard into the board-box as Nick liked to call it. The dim dawn hid through a crevasse in the wall. A pigeon lived in … Read more
The sermon done, I straggled past the barn, sun hawking blood through haze. Burnt noonlight scorched dead yellow grass and seeded clover — storm fast, gray brains above me soldered. My thoughts forking, I stalked past thickets to a freckled culvert that older children liked to laze and wander in. But fleeing water, they’d sought … Read more
The road to my village is like a snake – it will eat you alive if you let it. These are the dead, the dying, the not yet buried. These are the fig trees and the unmarried women and the beehives. These are the women who weave trees into their hair and pluck seeds from … Read more
At birth, they fed me milk and honey and washed away the blood. Is it any wonder every month I try to forget? I desire red: sun, pomegranate, scarab, poppy. A blooming of the mouth, the lips, the eyelids. I see the green turn orange, the body of autumn where even color is one with … Read more
stones rise in a celestial planchette pointing to no & yes there is no marble lady to gaze with tenderness over the city the auto shop the warehouse the parole office where ex-cons wait smoking long cigarettes in the cold I am happy to be here now not there in the absence & omnipresence I … Read more
The high school graduation invitation from my neighbor, a film canister of teeth I lost, ready to be retrieved by the tooth fairy, plastic dollhouse furniture, theater programs, every letter ever sent or given me by my childhood friends Anne and Traci. We were prolific letter writers. I don’t know the last name of the … Read more
Look at the baby, my mother mouths against my ear, pulling me close. She sees babies at the mall, in the grocery store—babies in the tomatoes! Allen Ginsberg would shout. She calls my name to show me babies on her phone, searches my face for a sign of enchantment. But all I see are strangers born … Read more
I laugh on this side. I laugh on the other side. I’m not sure where I am & I am laughing at that. That was a decision I made to take on the immensity, the sheer swallowing of the world inhabited by so many small pieces & so much weight with my own small laugh. … Read more
The beer bottle bird – she’d said when the monsoons hit – is made for the rains but each dry season eats sand to survive. The female leaves. It sleeps alone in a soffit or the galvanized pipe of a chain link fence. The male waits at the edge of a peach tree limb. He … Read more
The five months post-October – when warmth goes prodigal and cold wind sews the seams of my overcoat and cold wind finds places to sigh and whine through my bedroom windows’ seams — I didn’t used to mind them. In fact I used to love the rain-freeze that makes cities glisten, and the perfect white … Read more
On the final day of the Quit Smoking Class, I brought the 12-ounce jam jar the teacher said to get, to empty out and clean. It was to become the receptacle to put the butts of our cigarettes in – The good morning cigarette. The ten o’clock cigarette. The lunchtime cigarette. The mid-afternoon pick-me-up cigarette. … Read more
The auctioneer holds in his hands all the years we yearn for. Not that far from high school we already see the hardness of our wishes, how we would’ve shed our allowances to go to an auction where adult years were sold cheap. Where for a single night we could be eighteen or have sex … Read more
In those days, Janet was always hungry. It seemed to her that the space behind her bellybutton was just that, a space. No number of fish fingers or baked beans seemed to be able to fill this gap within her, and, just lately, Janet had begun to suspect there was something missing inside her. That … Read more
