A poem about a dream that recurs as variations on a theme. ~Dawn

In the dream you wore a party hat
and a crisp polka-dotted bowtie
to a funeral where the pews were
mostly empty.

You hop-skipped, 1-2-3, down the aisle
juggling great balls of fire, holding hell
at bay because you willed it to keep
its distance.

You pause and peer into the coffin,
where I lie, body of evidence
that I was real, that you couldn’t feel
what love I did.

In the corner, a man turns the page
of tomorrow’s newspaper, which says,
“A clown died today when the air was
too pure and he

choked because he couldn’t catch his breath.
He was nobody’s fool, friends report,
who removed his mask as last resort
and only then

for the girl no one quite remembered
who died the day before.” In the dream
I see with new eyes. My heart leaps
to warn you then.

With fingertips invisible, I
traced a tear cascading down your cheek,
kissed with lips you never knew eyelids
already closed.

It is Eastertide in the dream that
feels like a November wind. April
fools we were in life. In death, I wait
to take you home.