Young Writers Society

(A/N: The real title wouldn't fit on the subject line...)

“You Talkin' to Me?”: De Niro's Interrogative Fidelity and Subversion of Masculine Norms

bodies shaped forward, shoulders rolled,
their feet preoccupied with the step and meter
of thrust and strut, a wordless vocabulary
spoken on their faces, honeycombed and
red as a fevered baby.

there is a conservative nervousness,
pale and white, like a bride with cupped feet and lidded eyes,
and so they circle, restless –
a slouched assessment, a mean tailoring,
like men speculating in a used car lot.

the crowd rims
a perfect circle, spelling out
their witching incantation of chant and goad,
low and steady,
a slithery buildup.

all their honor and pride parceled
in one moment, curled fists and confederate bodies
bunched up like pantlegs when you wade
in the cool water, spurred and tight,
mouths compressed.

a left-handed swing, shallow –
ducking, head driven into the spine,
watch the fists, upward and concise.
his mouth smushes like a tick,
a sticky wetness – he falls back, graceless.

eyes mooned and black, scared
like a treed coon. a rise from the crowd.
he stumbles up, touches his mouth,
a grit of chipped teeth and blood,
his spine bowed like a penitent.

cadenced, they fall into it again,
they way men submit to the grind-down of the day,
mindless, their young bodies split and shuddering,
broken mouths, postures huddled,
and the carnival of the crowd.