Yoke Jennifer Perrine Pressed to my tongue like a pill, a Eucharist, you wake in me this spark and spur. Dear, dread catalyst, you wake in me. You arrange a place where I must wait, one smoldering cigarette the only remnant of this tryst you wake in me. After sex, sweat collects at your sternum, rainwater pooled, placid after the tempest you wake in me. Your hair loops, whorls in the sink, the shower. I fill a room with its straw, set spinning the alchemist you wake in me. In the gold purse of morning, I find origami stars that mimic each practiced turn, each twist you wake in me. You tear each flower from its stem as if this could undo the bloom, forestall fruit, withhold the harvest you wake in me. I see you now, glinting, coin tossed in a fountain. Single wish thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone unnoticed, you wake in me. You wrap the blindfold tight, lead me to a room of steel implements where I swear, honest, you wake in me. Tonight you wear all your teeth, don your finest claws, release a beast to roam the forest you wake in me. You appear as archangel. As serpent, too. Either way, I cast you out, invoke the exorcist you wake in me. Drunken god, you pursue me. Salvation means I turn to stone. Contrite, you weep wine, gloss of amethyst you wake in me. You crook my arm into this hook, this pivot and punch I did not know I owned, the swinging fist you wake in me. Fair phantom, you wander from room to room in the dark, master of obstacles. Somnambulist, you wake in me.