AFTER FUSELI’S NIGHTMARE
by KIRA TUCKER
The picture depends on the story you tell.
One account claims she met Fuseli bound
for London from Rome. Not crossing Europe,
I’ve gone just as far—wandering into wanting
a girl I’d only ever hold in verse.
Yes, we make art of the ones we’ve lost.
But do our portraits figure them immortal
or perpetually petrified, as she seems now,
draped, splayed, slain—which is it,
exactly? I am hers. And have her I will,
he wrote, recalling a dream lurid enough
to make it seem true. I want my work seen
in softer contrast; this harsh chiaroscuro
thrusts an aching white against the dark
that veils all else. No need for the metaphor
here: blackness as scandal, evil, the myth
of apelike goblins who rape a fair maiden
by mounting her sleeping ribs. Or, perhaps,
it’s only a Nightmare—the picture depends
on the story you seek. Mine began in Virginia,
still a British possession when this artwork
was finished. Why the personal turn here?
What in this painting makes me see myself
those summers ago, working at a slave estate
turned college campus? It isn’t the mare,
white-shot eyes, head wedged into view,
who looks like those foals I saw in the hills—
rearing in midnight fear as I braced to feel
the ruin of hooves against my spine. Burden
on the heart is how one historian captured
the trespassing creature the painter’s wild beast
pursues. I never bothered the dormant horse’s
stable, but my presence in this kind of country
conveys a certain threat. Fuseli’s symbols
make it clear, of course: this strange brown
thing, its round face and frowned mouth
the image of nighttime terror. This isn’t
a poem about desire so much as the haunting
that follows. In his first draft, a beloved poses
portrait-style. But then the canvas was flipped,
restarted, as if its artist said, this time you’ll fall
the way I did. Legs strained abed as if frozen
mid-run, a topaz pendant wreathing the neck,
nameless, empty bedside vials—such details
formed a sight so gainful its author devised
the tableau twice. Can craft’s demands truly
lessen our longing? I want to hear her speak;
it’s like awaiting a ghost’s reply. After work,
we’d walk the grounds and find it eerily easy
to summon scenes of the past. I can’t explain
this seeking after what could only leave me
hurt or worse. On that sojourn north, I was
colored by love’s tragic palette. Surrounded
by nothing but woods and white faces, I saw
how every dream can be a kind of nightmare.
This piece shows only the moments of terror
or loss, but doesn’t an oeuvre define an artist?
How much do I share Fuseli’s desire—to live
like his muse, unmoored from vain aspirations?
But with black on my back, I’m less her match
and more the monster’s; is it always the same?
Forgive these indulgences of the unconscious,
how poetic obsession retreads the same paths.
I did not design this grim stage in my mind—
its playhouse-red drapes, its striking white light.
author pic here
Kira Tucker is the author of the National Poetry Series-winning collection, Wildest, forthcoming from Akashic Books in December 2026. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in English from Northwestern University, where she was the 2024-2025 Artist in Residence. Her work has been published in Poetry, The Academy of American Poets’ Poem-A-Day, Callaloo, and more. A Memphis, Tennessee native, Kira now finds life in Chicago.
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