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.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Tiny Sun

Related Posts

Long wooden table with chairs. Plants in the background.

Four Ways of Setting the Table

CLARA CHIU
We are holding the edges of the fabric, / throwing the center into the air. / & even in dusk this cloth / billowing over our heads / makes a souvenir of home: / mother & child in snowglobe. / Yet we are warm here, beneath / this dome, & what light slips through / drapes the dining room white.

Contrail across blue sky

July 2025 Poetry Feature: New Poems by our Contributors

GEOFFREY BROCK
Sing, O furrow-browed youth, / of the contrails scoring the sky, / bright as lines of cocaine / until, as they age, the eye // loses them to the blue… / Sing of the thin-skinned plane / that made those ephemeral clouds, / and of all that each contains: // the countless faceless strangers

Fenway Park

Before They Traded Devers

AIDAN COOPER
I don’t know I’m not paying attention I’m crunching / peanut shells thinking Murakami began to write novels / because of baseball why don’t I / my dad’s grumpy / I’m vegetarian now & didn’t want a frank & yes it’s probably / a phase he’s probably right but it’s a good phase