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	<title>Two Hawks Quarterly</title>
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	<description>A Literary Uprising</description>
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		<title>Story of My Name by Arhm Choi</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/story-of-my-name-by-arhm-choi/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/story-of-my-name-by-arhm-choi/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 05 Jun 2013 06:46:41 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2013]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=7274</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I. 아름아, mom calls. &#160; I’m talking to my partner on my mother’s couch, telling her the same things I’ve been saying all my life: Korean doesn’t have a ‘r’ sound, so it’s more like a ‘r d l’ all smushed together, not a roll like in Spanish. &#160; I see this woman I love mimicking the sounds of it, her lips turning the corner of the page, almost. I fall for her harder in her openness to look wrong, admit there’s a part of me that doesn’t come to her easy. &#160; Rice is luck in Korean, and 아름 means lots of it, also ‘big hug’, as in measurement of a tree’s girth, or the armful of flowers that hides my face. It can also be an adjective, meaning beautiful. &#160; 예쁘다 아름 아름답다 &#160; &#160; II. My parents had just moved to the states and couldn’t make English work for them quit yet. Hours before I was born they ask the doctors how to spell my name, two white men from the nicer side of Detroit. Mama in thin blue gown slows down the sounds for them as if this could translate the hope they had for me [...]]]></description>
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		<title>I by Changming Yuan</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/i-by-changming-yuan/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/i-by-changming-yuan/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 05 Jun 2013 06:11:11 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2013]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Spring]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=7328</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[To begin with The hieroglyphical origin of My identity was simply no body But a common reed Bowing its head to the rising sun On the barren bank of the Nile &#160; Slim, tall, hollow-hearted Standing against tropical heat Until one day “I” was used As a human symbol, an open vowel Referring to the speaker And since then I have become One of the most frequently spelled letters In the linguistic order of the day Always capitalized To embody my dignity Though I am nothing But a common reed That could have been made into a flute]]></description>
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		<title>No Problem by David Breitkopf</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/no-problem-by-david-breitkopf/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/no-problem-by-david-breitkopf/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 05 Jun 2013 06:09:52 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2013]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Spring]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=7213</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[What? The beer can on the bookcase? There’s a funny story behind that beer can. Well, maybe not that funny. Someone gave it to me when I lived in Rego Park, Queens, on the same street where Kitty Genovese was murdered. That was the first one where neighbors just listened and watched. I always meant to find the exact spot where she was killed, but never got around to it. I lived there the winter we had 17 snowstorms in New York. It was like the 12th or 13th storm. I’d gone through one shovel already. That afternoon I bought another at the hardware store. Last one in stock, the guy claimed. Charged me 45 bucks for a crappy, warped snow shovel. I didn’t notice the long, think crack up the shaft until I was halfway to the car. I started back to the swindler, but stopped. Actually I slipped, fell, and the shovel hit me on the head. I’m not superstitious, but I took it as a sign for some reason, and pivoted back to my car. It was parked five blocks from my apartment. The plows had come by all day and swept the 20-inch snow plop against [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Trash Day by Janet Barry</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/trash-day/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/trash-day/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 05 Jun 2013 06:06:28 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2013]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Genre X]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Spring]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=7402</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[It is only that today is trash day. I hoped you would remember. Time to remove. We used to call it the dump. Back your truck up to the pile and fling your trash  at the mountain. People went there to see the bears. Rummage. To see each other. On a Saturday morning, I found. A fine tire, one Spring day, which I brought home, drilled a hole in the bottom, attached an arrow to a rope, shot it up over the high bow of a beech tree and attached it to the top and the kids squealed and screamed as I pushed them on their tire swing and afterwards there were cookies and a later dinner and I thinking about bears that night. How they snuffle and care more about berries than meat. Eat ants. In the news there was a story of a mamma bear who was afraid for her babies. Put them up in a tree, in the way that bears do. To keep them safe and then she faced her aggressors who thought her unaccountably vicious and shot her dead. It is only that we call it the Transfer Station now. Fling our plastic bags into a [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Winter&#8217;s Melt by Nicole L.V. Mullis</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/winters-melt-by-nicole-l-v-mullis/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2013/06/05/winters-melt-by-nicole-l-v-mullis/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 05 Jun 2013 06:04:53 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2013]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Genre X]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Spring]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=7233</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I pull on my heavy boots and an old sweatshirt. I haven’t walked in the woods since Thanksgiving, when the ground was still warm enough to melt the Canadian snow. It is half past Easter now – technically spring, actually winter. I crunch through islands of snow, slip on hidden ice, sink nearly a centimeter in ground just starting to give. The earth is a pound of ground beef left to thaw on a counter.  If I hold still and breathe deep, I can smell both life and decay. The trees crack. My knees crack. Labor pains? Death rattles? It’s too early to tell. I see hints of green but the woods are mostly blah. I climb the long hill, the one that makes me dizzy in August’s humidity. I climb until my boots feel like saunas and I want to peel off my sweatshirt. I crave cold water. I stop at the grey rock that faces west. I like this rock. Puddles dapple the top, snow wreaths the bottom. I sit, out of shape and out of breath. My ten extra pounds of sugarplums stretch my skin, my jeans, my self-esteem. The stone’s chill works into me slowly as [...]]]></description>
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