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Watusi

A poem from Hunter Hall

I sail by passive
and go straight to aggressive.
My polite clap,
more chilling than any
war horn at dawn.

Picture this:
My blood smeared face
smiling at the wreckage
the carnage.
My dancing feet
twirling
over the broken ground
no dance sweeter than
the Watusi.

My humor is a lash,
and if it does not draw blood
it is not funny.
I am my own favorite
punchline.
Please, admire my flair.
It is the brightest flower in my bonnet.

Do not try to placate me.
I am not the moral
of the story;
I am the foreboding clouds,
the ominous roll of thunder,
the ssnk ssnk of the scythe
felling the wheat,
the held breath
before the arrow flies.
I awaken
to crush dreams
and burn cities to the ground.

Picture this:
A smile so sharp
it can draw blood.
A flash of anger is all it takes
to light my
finest summer bonnet
aflame.

Run.


Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.


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