Today’s episode is guest hosted by Leslie Sainz.

Transcript

I’m Leslie Sainz, and this is The Slowdown.

When someone in my life—an acquaintance, a coworker, a friend or beloved—experiences a tremendous loss, I am acutely reminded of how language fails us. We give out heartfelt condolences such as “I’m sorry for your loss,” “My deepest sympathy,” or “Thinking of you during these difficult times.” But they do not resurrect the dead and rarely comfort the living.

Logically, I know there’s nothing I can say to someone experiencing profound grief that will neutralize their hurt or eradicate it entirely. But the empathetic desire to try anyway, to dig deep and find a unique combination of words that offer the ultimate wellspring of support, thoughtfulness, and care, feels worthy of striving for.

Still, if you’re anything like me, it’s all too easy to overthink your approach. Does the phrase “I can only imagine what you’re feeling right now” alienate the other person’s emotions? Does offering your thoughts and prayers to an individual run as hollow as it does when given in the wake of preventable mass tragedies?

What I know for certain is this: Experiencing grief is as nuanced as our relationships to the deceased. When we speak to each other in these immensely vulnerable moments, it is best, as in poetry, to speak spirit-first.

Today’s poem broaches grief with stirring realism, and in doing so, in naming its grotesqueness, porousness, and suddenness, it pierces us on a cellular level.

Urine Season
by Niina Pollari

Summer  in  New  York  is  urine  season.  Everything  has  an 
odor. The hot rain comes and hoses down the sidewalk, but 
the  smell  remains,  floating  there  as  warmth  on  live  skin. 
People  toss  bottles  out  of  their  cars,  and  the  bottles ex-
plode  over  the  sidewalk.  Or  they stay closed  and roll  to a 
stop,  then  cook  for days  next  to an architecturally famous 
building.

Last time  it was  urine season,  I was expecting.  That’s how 
you  say  it.  You  don’t  say  what  you’re  expecting.   I  didn’t 
know  what  I  expected,  but  now  I  know.  I held  my  pee on 
every corner of this town, waiting to meet my daughter.

This year  I’ve  been watching  a livestream  of  a falcon nest. 
On a ledge  above  the sidewalk  are three falcon hatchlings. 
They wait  and watch  in their rocky nest,  knowing that their 
parents  will  bring  them  smaller  birds  to  eat.   There  were 
four eggs in the nest,  but the fourth didn’t hatch. The three 
remaining hatchlings grow larger and more dangerous each 
day.  They rip apart tanagers  and starlings as they learn the 
ways of predation.  They shit  over the edge  of  the building. 
The excrement drips down the side.

Today the falcons left.

This is a poem about expectation.

At  the  hospital,  I had  a  catheter.  It  leaked  on  the bed,  on 
the sheets,  against  my legs.  Someone  came in  and  asked 
where my baby was, not seeing the decal on the door. I have 
never felt as helpless.

It’s  urine  season  again.  It  will  be  again  and again.  We  will 
feel this way again.

Some  will  say  this  is  not  a  poem  for  them.  But  I say  it’s a 
poem for anyone who ever expected anything.

“Urine Season” by Niina Pollari from PATH OF TOTALITY © 2022 Niina Pollari. Used by the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Soft Skull Press, an imprint of Counterpoint Press.