DIARY OF A REDHEAD 

Mother called me Aidan.  

Father called me son.  

Ireland called me Little Fire. 

In kindergarten they called me Freckle Face.  

Third grade, Carrot Top.  

Ninth grade, Fire Crotch.  

On the sporting fields, Fiery.  

At the oceanside summer camp, Lobster Boy.  

Around the neighbourhood parents  

knew me as hot-tempered.  

On the beach, blinding.  

In snow, camouflage.  

In mythology they called me Thor.  

After death they thought me vampire.  

In cinema, wild and tangled.  

After posting a fresh-haircut profile picture,  

a college friend said I reminded her of Tintin. 

On Robson Street they called me Daniel.  

On Granville they called me Henrik. 

In England they called me Rooney.  

In China, Red Devil.  

In Australia, Ginger.  

 

You,  

You call me Beautiful.  

Beautiful.  

Beautiful. 

Beautiful, 

the way you repeat it 

until the word  

 

extinguishes everything else.