Tiny Sun

By MARGOT DOUAIHY

I always hide behind my hair, even when I don’t have hair. I disappeared
inside my shaved head, identity de facto of college, coming out. Camouflaged
in plain sight, a faux reveal, ersatz openness of skin & neck. But the locks
grew back, as confused as I was. I keep inventing new ways to duck: my long
hair & manicure, kitten heels & denim skirts. At the Cherry Tavern, a frat
boy barked when I refused his drink: “But you don’t look gay.” Describing
me to a new friend, my mom called me a lollipop lesbian. “Sorry, I meant
lipstick!” What if there were infinite ways to be at ease—each one surpris-
ing? Thirty spokes join together, but it is the empty center that allows the
wheel to roll. What is Earth but a rock spinning on ice? Gravity’s just a
high-wire walk. To x-ray joy reveals a tug-of-war between crying & laughing,
because all things end. Look at the delicate skin of the quarterback, his thin
fingers as he passes. How lithe is the woman with her blond hair, holding
a hammer like she invented it. Don’t we all inherit hot & cold, January &
June, a comet & moon? Even now as it roars the rain holds light—
so bright—as if a tiny sun burned in each drop.

Margot Douaihy is the author of the forthcoming book Girls Like You (Clemson University Press, 2015) and I Would Ruby If I Could. Her writing and interviews have been featured in The Sow’s Ear Review, The Madison Review, The Moth, Belle Reve Literary Journal, The Catamaran Literary Reader, and The New Guard Literary Reviewwww.margotdouaihy.com

[Purchase your copy of Issue 09 here.]

Tiny Sun

Related Posts

Image of an orange cupped in a hand

May 2023 Poetry Feature: New Poems by Our Contributors

TIMOTHY DONNELLY
Thorn-blossom! Tender thing, prone to solitude / like yours truly, don’t get it twisted if I reach out my hand— / it isn’t to pluck you, who are my beacon down this path, but a gesture / of acknowledgment common among my kind. / When the lukewarm breezes nod off

Red Lanterns in Night Sky

On Wariness

MYRONN HARDY
There is rhythm on the pavement. / There is rhythm in small / apartment rooms. / I’m over slicing tomatoes. / I’m over drinking wine. / I’m performing as not to be / deformed     as not / to show what I shouldn’t. / I don’t want to feel everything.

Image of two blank canvases on a white wall

Nina and Frida Enter the Chat

FELICE BELLE
these biddies with their deadbolt backs/ take naps / while i construct/ canvas from corset cast / art does not wait until you are well / what they did not understand—the training was classical / chopin, motherfuckers/ carry on like she some backwater bluesy / least common denominator