intended. It’s a match
for anyone – branded

and named after the bright-
haired minority,

its stereotypes, hot-
headed, quick-

fisted, treacherous.
Judas Iscariot, in paintings,

looks scary. Does the Virgin Queen?
Van Gogh? Hopeful rumour

once had it, the genetic trait
would vanish, like a tribe,

but not, I can verify
calmly, in my family.

I am the conduit
for pheomelanin

and slurs, a combination
requiring the addition

of wit – tests, on junior
occasions, to rid the schoolyard

of a potential victim.
It’s better to be a hit at lunchtime

than be punched. Sex, it’s now said
in respected academic outlets,

is an even better proposition
when it’s with a redhead

than with those of other
stunning hair colours, they must

require more rest – clever
whoever first made that brave

conjecture, it suggests
a need for further vital tests.