Poetry Front Page

May 12th

I terminated you two days after Mother’s Day, on a Tuesday. 

They used terms like “terminate”, instead of “expel” or “kill” or “get rid of”. Makes it seem more humane. The uncomfortable, cold metal forceps, the whirring of the vacuum suction and an empty, clear container. Filled red. 

At the end of the procedure, the nurse gave me a juice box and crackers, and instructed me to rest for at least 10 minutes. I scarfed those saltines and graham crackers because I was weak and tired. I’ve learned to use food as comfort, and that’s all I had to soak up the tears that welled up inside of me. 

Before I was called into the room, I saw a petite Indian woman enter the waiting room. She was much further along, carrying a large, brown Louis Vuitton bag, and checked in at the reception desk. I felt sad. I felt inadequate. She looked like she could afford having a child. I cannot. 

Will I ever be ready to have a child?

The doctor explained the copper IUD lasts for 10 years, and recent studies show up to even 12 years. Will that be enough time to prepare? Is ten years too late? Ten years seems so far away. Ten years seems unreasonable.


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Filed under: Poetry Front Page

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Daisy Muñoz is a Mexican writer and visual artist raised in Hawthorne, CA, on the outskirts of the Greater Los Angeles Area. She frequently addresses race, gender, mental health, and cultural identity in the U.S. as the eldest daughter of immigrants. Daisy graduated from UC Davis with an undergraduate degree in History and Spanish. She currently lives in San Francisco.