with your words, with your images,
my dear, with all those lies you said
you believed, undoubtedly
You became haunted by your own people,
by garbage cans and gas grills,
by cars and priests,
by mirrors and musicians,
by men in black and booze,
by a secret lunar society,
and cults who cannot explain things
to any of us…
or to anyone.
We saw your talent: in the games
paralleling your life’s design.
We witnessed your lasting love,
your marriage without papers.
What you had to live for…
if only you recognized
the regular day,
if only you were witnessing
what we had witnessed.
You were the true “wit”,
the diva of the Staircase,
which lives on and on
without you, in cyberspace,
haunting us all with your beauty.
Some moments, those when I hit the
middle mark, I think
I can see a bit of you.
A woman has her mysteries, my dears,
a woman has her secrets.
What a relief it would be to not have
to “become” …
to become anything, anymore.
We are told not to speculate.
We are told we are riding your coattails.
We are told the mystery is not “duncanology.”
We are told to let you rest in peace.
What is it you wanted?
Anonymity? To be always the unknown girl from Lapeer?
I think not…
you became ever more
Poem by J. Rains with respect for Theresa Duncan. The Wit of the Staircase.