In the dream I’m talking to Tony, weeping,
a hundred questions on my tongue
but all he wants is to gaze upon Bukhara.
Bukhara? What does Tony know about Uzbekistan?
I’m trying to see it as it truly is, he says,
towers and minarets, dawn on the celestial blue
domes of Bukhara, its knotted alleyways,
the taxi drivers’ ancient grievances,
the endless human hungers and delusions
of Bukhara. Tony was a dangerous man
because truth was his mission and the truth, well,
there are softer blankets to swaddle in.
Laying one’s heart on a platter is risky business,
Tony, the scimitars of Bukhara
are infamously sharp. But what’s a meal,
he says, without a little organ meat?
Tenderness, a knife through butter—try it,
you’ll see Bukhara in a whole new light.
Tony is not alone, I notice, on his stony hillside,
there’s Tom, Lucia, J.D., friends and poets,
a cohort of the dead assembled outside Bukhara.
Tony is—what?—preaching, offering prayers
for the sunrise glittering upon Bukhara,
blessings, lessons, homilies?
Tony was trouble because he was always teaching us
how to ride a bicycle (even in Bukhara)
and felt nothing but contempt for training wheels.
Emotional training wheels.
The bicycle—of compassion? Of Bukhara?
No, contempt is wrong, never contempt—
bemused acceptance, tolerant disdain.
Tilt of the head, impish smile.
You see how it is, even in Bukhara, you see?
But whatever he’s searching for now,
whatever he’s struggling to express, eludes him—
Bukhara, Bukhara, Bukhara—he’s whispering
something about sunrise and the abacus
of time, about words and the inarticulable
splendor of Bukhara, ravishment and awe,
the sun’s adoration written upon the rooftops
of Bukhara in a thousand ancient scripts,
about passing forward the great mystery—
Bukhara. We both know what I mean
without either of us ever being able to say it,
don’t we, Cam? (Oh, he was one of the few
who called me that!) But listen, Tony,
I’m still worried about you, over here in…
Bukhara. Please be careful, stay safe.
The imp again, the playful smirk. Bukhara?
Is that the preferred euphemism now?
Listen, Cam, nobody wants to be the butter,
but somebody has to, no? There, he gestures
suddenly, look there! A great caravan
was setting out through the gates of Bukhara
along the old Silk Road, camels and pack-horses
sliding toward the horizon of whatever
lies beyond Bukhara, a realm
beyond all praise or calculation, and I knew then
that I would never again gaze upon the legendary
city of Bukhara resplendent in high desert sunrise,
and never again see or talk with my friend Tony,
who knew little of caution, or Bukhara,
and much about—let’s call it what it is—the soul.
—Campbell McGrath
Campbell McGrath is the author of eleven books of poetry, most recently Nouns & Verbs: New and Selected Poems.
