I am tired of being a poet
of witness, a collector of memories
soured and repeating. A collector
of tomes, bodies, and time.
Of postcard lynchings, toppled statues.
I am tired of the news.
But tiredness is not an option,
is not a role allowed in these here
times. Tired is nothing more than pause
between recharge, before forward
movement begins again. Tired is a satchel
on the backs of protest, able to be placed
to the wayside and emptied. It is a callous
and a fire and hand out and up
and across. It miles to go with a sun
burning on the horizon, nuclear
and frightening. It is weariness settling
into the crevices, flowering
out from the metallic noses of bullets,
exploding and riveting us to yet another
martyr. Tired is a huddle of whispers
on either side of the fence, a bang
of starting before the running
By Athena Dixon
Athena’s work has appeared in various publications both online and in print. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee (2016, 2017), a Best of the Net nominee (2017), a Callaloo fellow (Oxford 2017), and a V.O.N.A. fellow (2018). Athena is a member of the Moving Forewards Memoir Writers Collective. Additionally, she has presented at AWP (Boston 2013) and HippoCamp (2016, 2017, 2018).
She is the author of No God In This Room, a poetry chapbook , published by Argus House Press. Her work also appears in The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 2: Black Girl Magic (Haymarket Books).
She writes, edits, and resides in Philadelphia.