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Hey there. Today's episode is hosted by the poet Dianelli Antigua. Enjoy, and I'll be back on June 22nd. I'm Dianelli Antigua, and this is the Slowdown. I was four years old the first time I went to a funeral. My aunt had passed away after a battle with cancer. We knew she was going to die when she started giving away her things to me. She gave her collection of Cabbage Patch dolls. I remember holding those dolls, not fully understanding the weight of this goodbye, but knowing it was the final one. I wasn't protected from her death, and I find myself grateful for that now. Growing up, the older relatives in my family would say things like, cuando yo muera when I die. It wasn't said in hushed tones. It was part of conversation, very matter of fact, at times part of a joke. But in every instance, they were acknowledging the inevitable without turning away from it. When it comes to death, we often have a need to witness. It is our human instinct to see and touch, to hear their silence. I remember wondering why it was called awake service and learning that it comes from staying awake, from keeping vigil over the body before burial. We're keeping the dead company as they transition, much like we would with a friend at a train station before they move across the country. And yet there are deaths I have wanted to turn away from. Once, a mouse drowned in a rice pot I left soaking in the sink. I didn't want to see it. That was a death I wanted to be shielded from. We move towards some deaths and away from others. Curiosity and tenderness can exist alongside discomfort. And still we look. We move closer. We try to reckon with what has changed, what is left, what remains. Today's poem leans into that impulse. It moves through the experience of encountering death up close and the ways we try to understand it. Goldfish by Francisco Marquez. After we found it motionless on the floor, an amber ray refracting on porcelain. My sister took a knife to its side and sliced it, two halves, revealing a single squalid thing, like the underside of an embroidery. Years ago, I was told the only way to ever know tenderness is to dismantle it. So I think that's where our questions began. In the body of a fish, an animal so invisible it was almost ornamental. Internal organs so translucent they resembled Victorian gowns, its swim bladder suspended amidst the folds of its accordion heart, intestine rolled up in the braiding of a rope, and so much existed inside it, a living machinery, that the goldfish became more real in death than in life. I was ashamed to have thought this, as I was ashamed in the hospital to see our great grandmother motionless in bed, not dead, unable to remember who I was, her stillness terribly material, somehow weighty but nearly evaporative, and I wanted to turn away from her, her body emptied of soul. But I moved even closer, and like one who studies a corpse to know what it is that moves a hand, I looked in her eyes to find in them the end of knowledge. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. Find us on Instagram @downdownshow and bluesky@downdownshow.
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Start your day with Marketplace Morning Report and me, Kimberly Adams. In 10 minutes or less, I'll explain the day's economic news, why it matters, and what it means for the way you live and work. Tune in each weekday morning for independent, award winning journalism that brings clarity to the economy. Listen to Marketplace Morning Report on your favorite podcast.
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Apparently.
Date: June 11, 2026
Host: Dianelli Antigua (guest host)
Podcast: The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily
Duration: ~6 min
In this episode, guest host Dianelli Antigua explores our relationship with death and the human impulse to witness and reckon with loss. Through personal reflection and the reading of Francisco Márquez’s poem "Goldfish," Antigua contemplates how curiosity, discomfort, tenderness, and confrontation coexist when we encounter death—be it of a loved one or a tiny goldfish. The episode meditates on the act of looking closer, even when we want to turn away, and how in death, the reality of life and tenderness can become more vivid.
“Cuando yo muera, when I die. It wasn't said in hushed tones. It was part of conversation, very matter of fact, at times part of a joke.” — Dianelli Antigua
“There are deaths I have wanted to turn away from. Once, a mouse drowned in a rice pot I left soaking in the sink. I didn’t want to see it. That was a death I wanted to be shielded from.” — Dianelli Antigua
"Today's poem leans into that impulse. It moves through the experience of encountering death up close and the ways we try to understand it." — Dianelli Antigua
[Begins at ~03:30]
“I was ashamed to have thought this, as I was ashamed in the hospital to see our great grandmother motionless in bed, not dead, unable to remember who I was, her stillness terribly material, somehow weighty but nearly evaporative, and I wanted to turn away from her, her body emptied of soul. But I moved even closer, and like one who studies a corpse to know what it is that moves a hand, I looked in her eyes to find in them the end of knowledge.” — Dianelli Antigua (reflecting on Márquez’s poem)
Reflective, compassionate, and tender, the episode invites listeners to consider the ways in which looking at death—rather than flinching away—can reveal profound truths about love, knowledge, and what remains after loss. Antigua's gentle voice and personal insight foster a sense of belonging and shared humanity, even in moments of discomfort.
For more poetry and daily reflections, visit slowdownshow.org