Woman In The Red Hijab

A poem by R.M. Dolin, April 2026

Woman In The Red Hijab

They casually roll past the quiet part of town to
the painted cinderblock truck stop where
the chaos of parking lot gravel
transitions into carefully laid out rows of
tall country corn. A boy, his uncle, their vintage Harley,
and a caravan of big rigs idling side-by-side like
carnival cargo waiting to rediscover
their next new destiny. It’s the kind of place where
you lift the handle of the self-serve gas pumps
and only after pay inside.

The waitress, in her gold linen dress, white apron,
and heavy-soled shoes, calls them ‘hon‘ and
says they can sit anywhere even though
she already knows, they’ll take the counter.
In a promise never broken,
the boy won’t tell his mom about
drinking chocolate milk while a trucker
shows him how to poke holes in pancakes
so syrup better soaks in.
He doesn’t tell her because
he doesn’t want her to cry
and lately, everything makes her cry.

He never mentions the men on motorcycles
who quietly wipe road dust off their leathers
as they take every other seat 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 then, he softens to a smile
and rolls up the sleeve on his other arm
and points to a colorful tattoo of
a beautiful Berber woman in a red hijab.
Her 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 one’s 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
I’ll never forget.”
The giant lowers his head to share
an essential secret
boy’s have no hope of understanding
but painfully learn to never forget.
“The thing is,”
the giant shares with hard-earned wisdom,
“if you love someone strong enough
for long enough,
they’ll break your heart.”

The road weary traveler in dusty leather
with an unkept beard
looks at the boy through painfully deep
and piercing eyes as he bares 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 will again.”

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 vintage Harley when Issac was ten. When they pull in to eat at a small town truck stop, essential life lessons men accumulate through hard fought years get shared.

Inspiration for this poem came from a visit to an ancient oasis near the Moroccan Sahara called Aït Benhaddou (where the movie Gladiator was filmed). An artist there used natural dye paints he would burn once his painting was complete 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 until finally I wrote this poem. He used saffron for his red paint, alfalfa for green, sugar water for black, and indigofera legumes for blue. He’d burn the paper from beneath once his painting was done and the heat would both fix the colors and magically make them beautifully vibrant.