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Dream of a Lost Friend
par
Carol Ann Duffy
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You were dead, but we met, dreaming, before you had died. Your name, twice, then you turned pale, unwell. My dear, my dear must this be? A public building where I've never been, and on the wall, an AIDS poster. Your white lips. Help me. We embraced, standing in a long corridor which harboured a fierce pain neither of us felt yet. The words you spoke were frеnzied prayers to Chemistry; or you laughеd, a child-man's laugh, innocent, hysterical, out of your skull. It's only a dream, I heard myself saying, only a bad dream. Some of our best friends nurture a virus, an idle, charmed, purposeful enemy, and it dreams they are dead already. In cool restaurants, over crudités, the healthy imagine a time when all these careful moments will be dreamed and dreamed again. You look well. How do you feel? Then, as I slept, you backed away from me, crying and offering a series of dates for lunch, waving. I missed your funeral, I said, knowing you couldn't hear at the end of the corridor, thumbs up, acting. Where there's life ... Awake, alive, for months I think of you almost hopeful in a bad dream where you were long dead.
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