Paul Scully
Lithe Evil
‘Shiv”, Shiva the Destoyer, shiver
–a sonata of spine and fear–
I have loved this word waywardly,
the sleek espionage of how it
infiltrates a ribcage, punctures
a lung, the sectioning of an artery,
lengthwise or transversely, each
a delight in terminal craftmanship.
(I am also fond of “stiletto”.)
My first sallies were rehearsals
in pain, a buttock in an ATM queue,
an eye to an escaping corner, an arm
clutching a backpack strap
in a train entranceway, flight
through a just-in-time door.
I experimented with hidey-holes
until a sleeve-seam presented itself
as home for a wiry scabbard
and I devised a means of shaking
it free, unobtrusively. Now
I cut a fine figure prowling
the laneways and night shadows.
