Not from lack of sleep, our bodies having grown used to that by now. 

No, the mothers are tired

from holding the world’s questions in our 

burning, busy hands. 

Trying to find answers true enough to whisper into little ears without harming little heads. 

The mothers are tired

from fighting for our children,

from fighting for ourselves. 

The mothers are tired

from tidying up the world, 

the impossible task of making it a place worth the future. 

The mothers are tired, 

weary of carrying bags full of dreams and diapers and make believe stories of a world without fear or grief or injustice. 

The mothers are tired 

from a life of labor, 

a life waiting to be delivered. 

The mothers are tired, 

worn out from explaining the senseless crimes of man, the reason for rainbows, 

why the moon waxes and wanes but never grows tired enough to just

disappear.