Poem of the Week: 10.12.23
"Transformation"
TRANSFORMATION
by Ricky Novaes de Oliveira
Five fifty-five am. Two eyes open, close. Six o o snooze. One deep breath two feet to the floor. One bralette, one tennis skirt, one elastic waistband, one fitness watch, two matching earrings. Two spoons of peanut butter, one scoop pre workout. Eight fitness influencer videos. Two shoes, tied. Three flights of stairs. Two others, one open treadmill. Her usual routine: twelve-three-thirty. Incline twelve, speed three, thirty minutes. One hundred forty-two lbs. Another ten in fourteen days. Thirty more. One hundred sixty bpms. Lioness: boss bitch: the one. Cardio seven days a week, weights in between. Thirty minute limit. Class in two hours. Seventeen unread emails. Scroll nine times without missing one step. One assignment graded one comment of feedback: quantify. Eighty-nine points out of one hundred. Three beads of sweat. Five inch inseam. One glance right, four boys look away. Two eyes roll. Twelve-three-ten left. Three hundred calories. Two thousand calories too many. Cut five hundred. One hundred seventy-six bpms. One ring closed on the fitness app. Two legs wobble one breath, one more Seven steps to grab two dumbbells each fifteen pounds at ten reps for three sets until seeing zero six black spots. Two notifications ding. More reps more burn less fat less space one more. One more. One more. Four more minutes on the treadmill. One foot after the other. Ten pounds to size one. One, one, one. One foot slips, one tooth chips, one head bleeds. Three gym-goers scream. Nine one one. Thirty minute wait she’s catching up on sleep; Power Nap. Ten minutes past the start of class three percent grade reduction. One semicircle around one girl. Two eyes closed. One ambulance arrives. Two paramedics check one heart. One beat. One beat. Two. Breath. Breathing. One hospital visit, one thousand six hundred seventy five dollars and forty four cents billed, thirty dollars covered by student health, one IV, nine hundred mgs sodium and potassium, twelve silent tears, one call with mom, three offers to fly out rejected, five I’m fine, three I’ll be more careful. Released three hours later. One week excused absence. Seventeen texts from mom, two from dad, one call with sister. He only sends one. Type twenty-four words, send two. Ten hours blankly staring. Two hours rest. Repeating. Forty-eight hours after texts reach zero. Five more days prescribed bed rest. Three days after awake before the alarm five lbs lost from bed rest two button presses start the treadmill. Five more to go.
Just do it—gone wrong.
I’ve bounced around gyms in the last year. First the close one, then the “good” one, the better one across town until the good one was good enough, and eventually moved to a new one a few weeks ago. This one is small but fine; I’m just a cave man trying to lift big rock and grunt. I don’t need much. It’s all the same.
What I’ve learned through these many workout facilities is that every gym is a great place to people watch between sets. You see all walks of life, joined together for similar goals and varying lengths of times and tenures. Old young skinny fat poor rich sweaty sweatier cool lame buff amateur: and everything in between. Tying it all together is an air of dedication, whether that is mortal mindfulness or athletic intensity.
“Transformation” is a poem about the intense mindsets that encourage us to go beyond our bodies’ limits in pursuit of something more. How dangerous it can be to push yourself without a clear view for landing. No, I (thankfully) have not witnessed anyone getting injured at the gym, but I tried to use the staccato form and narrative pacing to explore the rhythms we get trapped in on the road to “self-improvement.”
I’ve also learned—from gyms as well as places where hearts beat too fast—it’s hard to really, meaningfully change as a person. How it all looks or holds or even feels is dynamic and ever-shifting, but changing your soul is the most difficult thing you can try to do. It’s almost impossible. Even when you eat shit and have to take a breather, you may find yourself back where you started, with some things changed, but you’re still the same, and it’s all the same.
Numerically, Ricky