Poem of the Week: 8.22.24
"Lo que va a venir"
LO QUE VA A VENIR
by Ricky Novaes de Oliveira
If the question is me & you & loop fruits or overnight oats & pouring promises & spilling & top-heavy weekend brains & differing forecasts & wildfires & the most of it & making & thematic theme-park parking & one two in a crowd & moving a long along & the turbulence we wait for & throw up & ride once more & adult-kids & please mom & parents with no training trying & controlling a gaze & back to the car in a huff & singing to the same song & loosing a grip & leaning language & looking for the wrong words to say & reloading a globe & traffic & lines repainted & if the beach you came to to get away from the desert & faded but not fleeting & fecund without fencing & figuring out today to find out tomorrow & if the mountains you came to to get away from the streets & in the dark your eyes & their veins & whiching hours & all bad except & a more sea toe & a low cave I’ve near then the answer is almost not & be something may & Santa Ana winds & fronts & scorched summits & sparks in the field & if so then so & not why but what & whispers spanning space & stars & those not yet seen & starting to stop & the world from spinning & we keep asking if the earthquakes only we felt
As I was editing this poem, a man walked up and asked me if I spoke Spanish.
“Un poquito,” I sheepishly responded after taking my earbud out. Sitting outside of a Philz Coffee shop while I put the final touches on a poem I just finished writing, I was in my own trance. I blinked at the man—older than me, sun-damaged skin, hard eyes, warm smile, star-shaped tattoo where his crow’s feet showed—standing next to my table.
He chuckled under his breath at my weak attempt and started to move away from me talking about trying to find LA Fitness. I gave him some directions, told him I didn’t have any cash in my pocket when he asked. It was a routine we’d both seemingly been through before, and he was starting to move on when I asked him “but why did you ask if I spoke Spanish?”
It was funny to me for a few reasons: (1) my momentary half-Latino validation being immediately stripped away once I opened my mouth, (2) this stranger’s fluent English despite the initial inquiry about my Spanish ability, and (3) even if it was a scam, I had just finished writing a poem that dwelled on language, translation, borders, liminal space, contradiction, and unconditional love and then immediately entered a tangentially-related experience.
His response was not as poetic or informative as I was hoping for, and he rambled about living near the border, being a mature person, if I could buy him a coffee, no more bullshit, working out to attract finer women, if I could buy him lunch. I entertained conversation for a bit while I figured out what he was looking for, and I invited him to sit with me while I ordered something for him on the Philz app. We talked in circles for a little while longer—about being mature when others aren’t, about not judging each other on a bad day, about giving every kid a good grade because they deserve it—and we even got to know each other. Then the order was ready, and we shook hands, and he walked away. Later on, I saw he never picked up the order.
When I looked back at the poem I had been mulling over after the random encounter, I knew it was done. “Lo que va a venir” is a poem that I wrote thinking about other things than the interaction that immediately followed, and yet I think it is all entwined.
Poe key toe, Ricky
