Between Bruises & Blooms

It is three in the morning
and no one has told my babies
that the moon means sleep.

They are wide-eyed,
warm-cheeked,
babbling little constellations
beside a mother
held together by caffeine,
habit,
and whatever stubborn thread
keeps women standing
when the whole house
has gone dark.

I am tired
in the marrow.

The kind of tired
that makes the clock feel cruel,
each glowing number
another reminder
that morning is coming
whether I am ready
or not.

Still—

one of them laughs.

The other reaches for me
with sleepy little hands
that apparently have
no intention of sleeping.

And somehow
even here,
in the ungodly hours,
with heavy eyes
and tomorrow already
breathing down my neck,

love keeps happening.

Messy.
Exhausted.
Unscheduled.

Three a.m.
is still motherhood.

And I am still here,
rocking beneath the moon,
loving them
through every impossible hour.