A poem by R.M. Dolin, April 2026
Woman In The Red Hijab
They roll into the painted block truck stop just beyond
the quiet part of town where corn grows to the edge of
parking lot gravel. A boy, his uncle, their vintage Harley,
and a caravan of big rigs parked side-by-side like
carnival cargo waiting to rediscover their next destiny.
It’s a place you lift the handle of self-serve pumps
and only after step inside to pay.
The waitress, in her gold linen dress, white apron, and heavy-soled shoes, who calls them ‘hon,’ says they can sit anywhere though she knows they’ll take the counter. In a promise never broken, the boy doesn’t tell his mom about drinking chocolate milk while a trucker teaches him to poke holes in his pancakes so syrup can better soak in. He doesn’t tell her because he doesn’t want her to cry and lately it seems everything makes her cry.
He never mentions the men on motorcycles who quietly wipe
road dust off their leathers as they take their seats at the counter.
The biggest biker who sits next to the boy is a giant;
his hair is rough, his beard unkempt,
and the boy isn’t sure he shouldn’t be afraid.
When the giant catches the boy staring at a forearm tattoo,
his lips tighten around monster scary tobacco-stained teeth
capable of tearing apart flesh with the ease of eating
syrup soaked pancakes. But the giant softens to a smile
as he rolls up the sleeve on his other arm and points to
an image of a Berber woman in a red hijab whose hidden face reveals
seductively shaped almond eyes of limestone green
highlighted by mysterious indigo shadows made more pronounced
by long black lashes and reflectively sad tears puddling in the corners.
“This is my favorite,” the giant confesses in a lonesome way
unknown to the boy but unmistakable to every man at the counter.
“It’s to remember the woman who broke my heart.”
He lowers his head to share an essential secret
boy’s can never understand but should never forget.
“The thing is,” the giant starts his hard-earned wisdom,
“if you love someone strong enough for long enough,
they inevitably break your heart.” The man in dusty worn leather
looks at the boy in a deeply piercing way that penetrates his soul,
“just because they don’t love you,
don’t mean you don’t love them. . .and maybe if you’re lucky,
you’re able to convince yourself,
they once did. . .and maybe still do.”
From chapter seven of the R.M. Dolin novel, “An Unsustainable life – The Book of Issac.” Issac recalls a ride into the Wisconsin countryside he took with his Uncle Darwin on his uncle’s Harley when he was ten and the essential life lessons the men at a truck stop shared.
Inspiration for this poem came from a visit to an ancient oasis near the Moroccan Sahara (where Gladiator was filmed). An artist was using natural dye paint he would burn once the painting was done to bring out the colors. The artist had a small painting of a Berber woman in a red hijab hanging on the wall of his 1,000 year old adobe that was so seductively enchanting it haunted me for days. . . His red paint came from saffron, the green from alfalfa, the black from sugar water, and the blue from indigofera legumes. He’d burn the paper from beneath and as he did, the colors would magically transform into beautifully vibrant fine art.
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