Marathon

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
begins.

By Athena Dixon

Biography:

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.