In an Assassin's Shoes

They're called stilettos,
An assassin's tool,
They strike in the deepest of nights
Under cloaks they glint like daggers

At six inches
They make the perfect weapon
Sleek and small and
Easily concealed in pretty packages

A swift stab sinks
In and right back out...

It can be days before the victim
Finds his heart on his cuff
And a blade in his back.

They step up, step forward, and on and on
Those stilettos keep
Clipping, slicing, slashing over
Pavement, slicing again and again
They move briskly under
Seamless, silk stockings that glow

Luminous in streetlight.
Eye-catching, striking,
Sharp they say.
Whistle.  Stare.  Stop.

The stilettos silently turn, sizing up
Their next victim.  Watching eyes travel
Slowly up as the heel
Taps the ground first
Then the toe, tightening the calf.
Muscles straining towards the flexed thigh,
Taut
A lesson.

Those stilettos wiped clean lay still
In the back of the closet wondering why
No one ever tells men
Most women have knives.

(c)Kindra McDonald                         

published in Skipping Stones 2007