The Nightmare: Oil on Canvas, Henry Fuseli, 1781

Too hot to rest, I toss my arms off the bed. My night- gown wet with sweat. I feel you — a sack of scavenged skulls on my chest — sipping the salt from my breasts. Imp. Incubus. Im- pulse. You and me like a mare that must be broken in by breaking in- to. Tamed is how fire is by giving itself something to destroy: it destroys it- self. But who can deter- mine what’s inside another? What is risked when we enter    ... Caliper. Forceps. Scalpel. Oculus. Perhaps you’re the wilderness that waits with- in me. Perhaps an other mystery, I open beneath you. Yoked. Harnessed. Paralyzed. At once a- wake and a- sleep. I nay. I knock over the kerosene lamp. Light of the rational mind snuffed. Shadow of shadows. Because I can’t see, I sense. Your thumb thrumming my mouth. A command. Arch- angel. Vision of invasion. Insemination. My horse heart beating with yours.