Lek Borja Seized lies my body in the latitude of her sex How her desire shines like luminescence in the sea as if the moon were inside it, as in every hour where we enter together Tenderly sink then float longingly so My eyes follow her journey down to its end With her tears...
Read More »
.jpg)
Jordan Hartt (grass buckles in the newborn wind) (the cattle on a thousand hills are mine) (gravel settles behind wheels) (grain the color of nickel waves in dull sunlight) (worn overalls hang off the whitewashed porch railing) (with a farmhand he brands sullen calves) (weathered fences...
Read More »
.jpg)
Sarah Long My body is an ever-changing clock— spastic springs and gears never settling, never keeping proper time. Bodies carry bodies in pockets, on chains like skin-scented heirlooms. When my grandmother died, she left me her first kiss, the ticking sound of summer asphalt and peach fuzzed legs. I see my mother’s handwriting...
Read More »
Donnelle McGee for Seven i come from them smoggy nights in LA i come from the meeting of john and prostitute i come from the ohio players shouting fire i come from being told here take these food stamps to the market and get some milk for you and your brother i come from under the...
Read More »
Vivian Faith Prescott The muddy tide rising to shore should carry you downriver by now. But, I imagine your scow wedged between cottonwoods on the riverbank branches shoved through your chest motor revving. Maybe your skiff is jammed on the sandbar, and you’ve stumbled over the side, whirlpools sucking your rubber-booted feet. But...
Read More »
Stephen Page Last Night I Dreamed Rain The clouds quickened under a wax moon, then settled around plastic palm fronds. My truck stuck in river bed three, and just like the time it slipped into a ditch, I tried to push it out alone, putting it in gear, then straining under...
Read More »
![A Fine Meal [Ars Poetica]](http://twohawksquarterly.com/wp-content/uploads/NancyLong.jpg)
Nancy Long i. Harmony A fine Chinese meal my mother said is made of five flavors, a blending of elemental portions. What is sour, she said, if not the flesh of plum? To know sour is to taste green watering across your tongue, to feel the force of wood striking your...
Read More »
Jane Cassady Is there anything we can go in and get for you before we board it up? Before the window plywood gets its eventual graffiti, before you wash the clothes in Pine Sol to get out the smell of smoke, before a loving friend helps fold those clothes, so specifically and...
Read More »
Jane Cassady But here it is. As we walk the summer camp kindergarten through third grade down the street to Pleasant Playground for their weekly swim, the kids are in their two quiet lines, listening for traffic and blue jays. The shutters are open, even though it's only been a week. "Poor Mr....
Read More »
The Winter 2011 issue features Creative Nonfiction from Micaela Seidel, Genre X from Sarah Long, and Poetry from Lek Borja, Michelle "Strawberry" Heymann, Wednesday Hobson, and Jessica Kincade
Read More »
I judge myself deeply, harshly – don’t allow courtesy given others, thoughtless tortured by tumultuous thoughts, ticking driving negativity nails through, aching begging, the merciless obsession eradicated, relentless screaming behind frozen stare, scared floods back like recoiling toes from cold water, endless forgiveness, permission – breathe and be, redemption when ...
Read More »
I cannot muster effort enough to show what is and unspoken there what little deserves and overly qualifies a human to which I am particular. There is a body: made of sinews, contrasting with elasticity – his rubberband arms and legs cinnamon facades made for over-ambiguity – preserving a heart perpetual pumped...
Read More »
A buck ninety-nine. Window at 32nd and Rose With a tad more fat than you know you should Make sure to tell them to make it a value meal, And stick extra magnums in your bag When you get her home Intoxifying – Moral concerns about the hormone-injecting slaughterhouse Devour her So you can...
Read More »
in remembrance of Eun Kang What if it were just called Monday, not Night of Remembrance, not Ceremony or Candlelight Vigil? If this night was a night with nothing to take back? If women did not carry tea lights or pray under a canopy of bamboo? What if...
Read More »
.jpg)
At the observation station observers tried observing themselves making observations and were impressed by the results. A film loop of a loop of film being filmed in a loop. For scientific purposes, some said. For posterity said others, to preserve in our selves the making of ourselves, as seen in the making. Doesn't...
Read More »
How to still the gills until they need to go how to go from...
Read More »
That scoundrel, man—he gets used to everything. Fyodor Dostoevsky Maybe the moon is full and bright and earth reveals bones, shallow graves in a shallow war. Maybe the moon’s light plays with the meek fire of men cramped beneath a bridge in Ohio as they watch gray chunks of ice float...
Read More »
Tuesday Afternoon Shopping. This one night stand that I was looking for has now wasted 4 months of my life. She looked beautiful on the dance floor, that’s all different on Tuesday afternoon as she dumps a large box of condoms into the shopping trolley. She says, ‘It costs less when you buy more...
Read More »
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror (found phrase) after Rilke That first flush of daylight against the hills— the rosy fingers of antiquity still with us, now, leavening the sky across black branches curving, hatched and glorious: alive, as we eke human cries through days and centuries, believe our...
Read More »
Born in 1939 in Maryland, John Fahey pioneered the use of traditional country and blues finger picking to showcase the acoustic steel string guitar as a solo instrument that could play a mix of traditional and non-traditional musical genres. He collaged ideas associated with Bartok, Charles Ives, Indian and Gamelan
Read More »
