All Moms Die

All Moms Die

“Don’t cry,” your red marker runs

across a hand-held writing board. “Don’t cry.

It happens to all -- all moms die.”

Yes, Mom, you’re right,

I bloody well know -- all moms die,

but what do I care about all…

Your voice cords are paralyzed,

so you breathe through a tube.

They promised you’ll be able to speak,

somehow. I wish you could.

Some doctors say you aren’t trying hard enough,

others that your case is too tough.

They keep calling psychiatrists to improve your mood.

You write you don’t want their “happy pill” -- how rude.

“Why doesn’t she smile today?” they ask.

(Facing unhappy patients is such an ungrateful task.)

Sometimes I wanna strangle them, one by one...

I’m glad I don’t have a gun.

Anyway, speaking is the least trouble of all.

There is a consensus about no hope left at all.

“All moms die” in red letters,

impossible to deny.

You look at me from your hospital bed,

and your green eyes are dry.

I want to be strong like you,

Not to weep in reply.

But I can’t. I’m sorry, Mom,

It’s just something in my stupid eye...

Irena Pasvinter

Irena Pasvinter divides her time between software engineering, endless family duties and writing poetry and fiction. Her stories and poems have appeared in online and print magazines (Ariel Chart, Bartleby Snopes, Bewildering Stories, Fiction 365 and many others). Her poem "Psalm 3.14159..." has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She is currently looking for a publisher for her first novel. Visit Irena at  


  1. A real shot to the system. Girls don't play.

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