Poetry Archive, The Political Body

Three Poems

Pregnant woman standing outside against a sunset.

Immaculate Conception

The day my mother confessed 
She had conceived me though IUI,
Guilt swallowed her eyes. 
Her voice grew quiet
And shame took over her body.
She had betrayed God 
For a baby.
Wanted something 
So natural, 
And obtained it artificially. 

Throughout my life, 
She repeatedly told me
I was special. 
I never quite understood why 
Until that day. 


Feliz día de las madres

I think about the first interactions 
Between my mother and I.
She’s the first person 
And place 
I called home.
The vibrations traveling 
From her mouth to her belly—
Yo sentí el español antes 
De oírlo, hablarlo, leerlo, ni escribirlo.

She would tell me 
You ate whatever I ate
In an attempt to argue
I should like the foods she eats.
I can’t deny I adore chiles rellenos
But I also can’t digest garlic or onions.
I inherited taste and malaise. 

I look down to my belly button,
It once was connected to my mother.
And her belly button was once connected to her mother, 
And my grandma’s was connected to my tatarabuela.
We all have reminders we were connected to each other—
Una red de cordones umbilicales 
Alimentando la una a la otra
Isn’t that beautiful?
Isn’t that amazing?


Translate This

“It seems like she doesn’t need a translator,”
The call nurse told her colleague,
While I was still on the line.

Caught off guard 
By the offhand comment, 
I am suddenly enraged 
With my healthcare provider
For the first time while pregnant.

I am upset—
My Hispanic name 
Gave me away. 
They assumed my abilities 
Based on my name and ethnicity.

Speaking in my white voice, 
Not slipping a single word in Spanish,
Even after 
From English learner 
To fluent English speaker
In third grade,
To graduating college,
There still remains the doubt 
That I can speak the language.

I remember how my mother 
Was rushed out the hospital 
After she gave birth 
Because my parents were 
Poor, immigrants, and spoke little English.

Always rushed. 
Never tended to. 
Adequate medical 
Does that exist 
For me

Or does that only apply to white mothers 
Who plan,
Who have saved their coins 
Across multiple generations,
Where a baby is a blessing, 
Not a concern
nor a mistake?

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Filed under: Poetry Archive, The Political Body


Daisy Muñoz is a Mexican writer and artist raised in Hawthorne, on the outskirts of the Greater Los Angeles Area. As the eldest daughter of immigrant parents, she addresses race, gender, mental health, and cultural identity in the U.S through her writing. Daisy graduated from UC Davis with bachelor’s degree in History and Spanish. Her work has been featured on Raising Mothers and Hispanicdotes. She currently resides in San Francisco.