Lime Hawk

Lime Hawk is an independent artist collective and literary press based in Redding, Connecticut, producing works that muse on environment, culture, and sustainability. 

Might we trace back to the origin, the history of everything

Julia Tranchina


Out of the ninth month—midnight. The sun is directly over the equator day and night. She’s been on the Pitocin drip for about an hour. The problem with binaries: good, evil, subject, object, gay, straight, boy, girl, Munchkin, flying monkey. Snaking through the sunshine and lollipops. The Earth began to cool. They broke Baby A’s water last night. The images stuck in your head. We are unhinged by longing. Butterflies taste with their feet. We’re in our room with beers, Lucky Strikes, the radio and the red light from the neon Hotel Congress sign. They’re magically delicious. Swelling of the hands, face and eyes. Character produces hope. The snap of pennants in a spring breeze. There are more Irish in the US than in Ireland. A broken spirit. I want you green. However, steps need to be taken to stabilize your wife and deliver her speedily. You are guaranteed a positive outcome until the word “however” appears. According to the conditions of the mother. She drove into a palm tree and it flipped her car over. Bugs in Nevada. We regret to inform you that your results did not qualify you to continue. Am I damned or am I saved? She was underwhelmed by sadness. Please help me confirm your worst fears about me. Cut out the sour verses. Your mama lay hidden behind a sheet, strapped to the table like Christ. Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return. Man, words can’t really put it right. That reminds me of a hilarious joke about a cordless phone I read once in Reader’s Digest. You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. Lost in a pattern of memory only to tumble out as buried wonder. And they all died. I’m going to heaven when the world’s on fire. He seemed completely unaware of how strange it was to sleep in a cement wigwam. Why does it happen to everyone? Entire families shop at Costco each evening. Who killed the hake? Fish is fish. Adult Only Purim Party this Saturday night!!! My mother slipped on the dog urine and landed on the edge of the tub. I don’t recall seeing so many drunk driving accidents in other neighborhoods where I have lived in the past. Two generations of your family died in this house. I see you at the bus stop under your fancy Asian umbrella and you blow me a kiss as I drive past. You think what it is to sleep. A handful of crushed yellow dandelions. The dead arose again out of the earth and gave voice to her singing of their past. Did this happen? You begin to breathe the common air. Your brother, Baby A, came out (was cut out) first and spurt pee in the air like a whale. He loved these things with all his soul. We just stared speechless and awed. They are of equal weight, like, not above. It made her sad; the girl who could not wait. You, Baby B, were loud and red. A friend of mine buried her son’s cord in the grounds of Harvard University. Follow the sun to the Shady Dell. Life through the soft glow of smeared Vaseline. Note that everything begins with this. The stars spinning in the night sky. So we stand hand in hand waiting for anything. I must learn to quit the sadness before our luck runs out.


Julia Tranchina is currently working on a series of twenty-seven language poems. Her writing has also appeared in Barrelhouse, Monkeybicycle, Ohio Edits and Literary Orphans. She lives with her wife and two-year-old twins in San Jose, California.