Seeing

A poem by S.E. Street

For my seventieth birthday,

I am gathering the family.

My mind keeps drifting back

to a movie I once saw,

about a single woman, also turning seventy,

living alone in a small apartment by the sea.

As she surveys her nephews and nieces—some seated around the dining table,

one perched on the edge of a sideboard,

another leaning against a high chest of drawers—

she remembers the lovers: the one who splayed her limbs on that dining table,

the one who caressed her from behind, against that sideboard,

the one who lifted her atop that chest of drawers, all the better to admire her,

while her nephews and nieces see only their aunt making a speech.

She thanks them, in turn, for how they have embroidered her life.

Each holds a known piece of her. Yet there are these veiled, unseen skins.

At seventy, she says—wondering if her words will be too elliptical and hold no meaning,

if they will glance off the surface of their dewy faces,

—I understand that the judgement of others

is nothing compared to your own happiness.

Live your lives, unapologetically.

Her past lovers pause on the furniture

as if to caution her and one says: you don’t need to explain, to tell them everything.

Let us be invisible. Let us be—vivid and wild—

in this room, with you still.

Hear S.E. Street read her poem:

SeeingS.E. Street

2:03

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S.E. Street’s fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been published in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, Australia, and New Zealand. She is a recipient of the Dymocks Short Story Prize for fiction, the Hunter Writers Award, and the SCWC HARP winner for poetry.

Image: Lady leaning by Akanda Kilicarlsan