Jo O’Lone-Hahn

County fair princess sash

A catapult w/ every
joint in proportion
to a body,
something landed in

my circle
—a figure
of whether I’m better
off without


notice something.
“There’s no daffodils,” in that

patch. Why do

you want me just as
naked? “Suicide

watch,” doesn’t
make you that

special. Jo,
it?” is still
draped across your breast.

Leave you sleeping in Las Vegas / the meadows

You’re loved by all, but still seedless.

You aren’t loved by all.

The sunrise from
far away makes the Man
-dalay Bay, Treasure I
-sland and Flaming
-o glow smooth, gold
indestructible. I’m sweating
into your mouth —just
say something surprising

& I’ll stop. I’m not

in the hotel w/ you.

Flowers wrapped around a port
-ico, out of
proportion in their
dewy moan

-ing. I’m picking
up a bracelet
off the street. My wrist

Don’t follow
me. Jo, “how will he

do it?”
is still
draped across your breast.

I got dressed up for you

& spat
out the concept
that eating is always
death & equally
so for
all things
eaten. I’m re
my sky blue tulle
as a reflection
pool & drawing
a bikini because
I need this
body to jump


these 2 blue
options. Scientists
often choose
to save only
creatures that
eat smaller
creatures. What
are you gonna
do to me? Jo,
“how will
he do it?” is still
draped across
your breast.

I’m wearing a bikini at the beach house bonfire

I tell                                this sudden memory
                                      for the first time: young,
                                      Mom told Dad to stop
                                      dreaming of rockstar
                                      fame & he tossed
                                      out boxes boxes of Rock
                                      n’ Roll records, crying.

Mo recounts                  a hard time meditating
                                      on a sunny day.

& Ahmed discuss,          decide between

sacrifice or triage.

But You stare out
until this beach

is invisible, invisibility
licking your half-open

eyes —vulgar & some-

how more obsessed
with light.

I wanna ask:                 “Will we feel stoned?”
                                      when these 2 sky blue

                                      sea blue options
                                      kill us for fun?

“I think it’s possible”
is a heartache that
someone says               & that
                                      is the center
                                      of fun. Is
                                      this fun?

Jo, “how will
he do it?”
is still


Electric lamp above a museum painting

Your old friend men
-tioned suicide & said “you
won’t feel anything.”

Riskless wires, Sol
-utions. Both
of which know
gutter-waste also
grew from nothing.

Prelude suicide notes
say meet you at the donut
shop, the car wash.
I’m meditating into the sin
-ews of your fingertips,
I see your see
-dy motel

bed. I have a big
bad heartache. I touched
like any other tourist
mining obsessions

from Rothko color fields.

Jo, “how will he

do it?”

is still draped across


Jo O’Lone-Hahn is a poet and visual artist based in Las Vegas. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in the Tampa Review, Black Warrior Review, SPECTRA Poets, New Delta Review, Great River Review and elsewhere. She is a current MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas and the poetry editor of Witness Magazine.
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis ( is the Editor-in-chief and founder of Posit ( and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom (winner of the Washington Prize), Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies such as Walkers in the City (Rain Taxi), They Said (Black Lawrence Press), and Resist Much, Obey Little (Dispatches/Spuyten Duyvil), as well as in journals such as Agni, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Conjunctions online, Diode, Interim, New American Writing, and VOLT.