In Memory of Me

by Deidre Abrahamsson

I am ashamed of my body.
Every flaw, every scar,
every imperfection,
I magnify when I am out
in the world.
Alone in my room
it is different.
I am happy and pretty
and I dance and twirl
in front of the mirror
and when I am tired
I curl up like a cat
in my bed
and purr myself to sleep.

It is different outside,
in the streets, in school,
in the everyday world.
An unfounded paranoia
seeps in and I hear
people’s thoughts,
bracing myself
for imaginary criticism.
My body feels heavy,
it is alien to me.
I want to cry out
This is not me!

No.
Instead of shouting
from the rooftops
I withdraw and hide
in the closets of my mind.

I long to be proud
like the Queens
from whom I descend.
My ancestors were warriors.
They had to fight to endure.
Through endless births
and miscarriages,
running the farm,
looking after the sheep and cows,
working in the fields,
masking their womanliness behind
long dresses of heavy cloth,
struggling to keep the family
together, despite death and famine
and evictions and depression and
fairies and drunken husbands.

No I am not like them.
At least this week I am not.
My body is a burden to me
and I poison it with drink
and nicotine and sex and scars.
And I bottle up my words inside.

But one day it will be my turn.
Someday I will be so shaken up
that my voice will explode.
And I too will wear wellingtons
and traipse across the back roads
from Moylough to Kiltimagh to
Loughrea to Gowna and Malin Head,
laughing at the fairies that I meet on the way.

Look for me on the roads.
Listen for my voice.

The Author

Deirdre Abrahamsson is a New Yorker living in Gothenburg, Sweden. She received a BA in English and an MS in Education from the University of Pennsylvania. By day she writes operational plans and reports for the 2006 European Athletics Championships and by night, poems and short stories. She is currently working on a novel about love, sobriety, and New York City.