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On sand soaked with blood,
two young men are breathing hard.
The taller one has armor,
a sword and a net.
His opponent has only
an arm guard and a dagger, 
but no encumbrance.
Thus, moving quicker, this man
avoids the constant thrusts of
the taller one’s sword.
Finding his chance, he lunges
and his dagger pierces through 
unprotected flesh.
Crimson red blood gushes forth
from the tall man’s thick midriff.

The crowd screams delight!
Spurred on by their approval,
the shorter man strikes again.
This time his dagger 
finds muscle, sinew and bone.
Hot pain consumes the tall man,
but he can't cry out.
His life blood is draining and
the net and sword are useless.
By oath he is bound 
to endure a violent death. . . 
and so he lifts his finger.
To his friend - his opponent -
he offers his throat.
No mercy handkerchiefs wave.
The editor gives thumbs down.
As his fellow man
buries the blade in his throat,
a young man embraces death.

The death of this slave
is the gladiator’s lot.
Another slave lives today,
but his death also
is imminent;  then he too
will finally know freedom.

For Amy Green's 
Choka for a Chokehold Poetry Contest

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