Ugochukwunyereoha Onyewueze Poet Spoken Word

One Step from the Throat

Whispers of frost claw the pines.  
?Midnight presses down, thick as tar.  
?A single red hood moves—slow, too slow—  
?through the skeleton orchard of winter trees.  
?The moon is a cold eye, watching.  
?It sees everything.
?
?The path ends at the frozen river,  
?black water locked beneath cracked glass.  
?A thin red thread trails behind her—  
?no, not thread.  
?Blood.  
?Fresh.  
?Still steaming in the snow like a secret exhaled.
?
?She stops.  
?The forest stops with her.  
?No wind. No owl. No breath but hers,  
?small white ghosts rising, then vanishing.
?
?Then the shadow shifts.  
?Not at the edge.  
?Not behind.  
?Ahead.  
?Rising.  
?
?First the silhouette—impossibly tall.  
?Then the bulk tears free of the dark:  
?matted fur drinking the moonlight,  
?shoulders rolling like avalanche stone,  
?claws long enough to hook the stars down.  
?The muzzle lifts.  
?Teeth catch silver and hold it.  
?Eyes—two burning coins—fix on the crimson figure  
?and do not blink.
?
?She does not run.  
?She does not scream.  
?She only tilts her head,  
?just enough  
?that the hood slips half an inch  
?and a pale crescent of throat gleams.
?
?The beast takes one step.  
?Snow screams under his weight.  
?Another.  
?The ice on the river answers with a low, warning groan.  
?Closer.  
?The smell of iron and wet fur rolls ahead of him  
?like a tide she cannot outrun.
?
?Her basket hangs forgotten at her side.  
?Whatever lies inside—bread, herbs, a grandmother’s last hope—  
?means nothing now.  
?The only currency left  
?is heartbeat  
?and how long it can keep beating.
?
?He lowers his head.  
?A rumble begins somewhere deep in that barrel chest—  
?not quite a growl.  
?More like the sound a grave makes  
?when something inside decides to climb out.
?
?She lifts one gloved hand.  
?Not in surrender.  
?Not in plea.  
?Just… there.  
?Open.  
?Waiting.
?
?The moon slides behind a cloud.  
?Everything goes black  
?except the faint red glow of her cloak  
?and the wet shine of his fangs.
?
?One more step.  
?
?The forest holds its breath  
?until it hurts.
?
?And then—  
?the night  
?decides  
?which throat  
?will open first.

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