ANTI-ESCAPOLOGIST

You have the same name as him.
My conscript tongue has practice
in bitter acrobatics,
transitioning from close to
close so often
to containment;
instead of climbing
those chained sounds that mean him, self-
saboteur, swallows
state-of-the-art equipment,
drops calls, lacerates greetings,slides into appeal,
nylon misdirections, all to fall
into the place of amputation
he nominated mildness.
His name is to his palate.
It behaves.
Will not be severed from him.
You have the same name.
Yet for how many times it was his
in my mouth, it is yours once,
is the only sweet almond
in the tumbled bag,
is the spit buds taste.
For it has nothing of summoning,
your name: the mouth-bearing thing
I was, when shut up,
you so quickly translate
out of relation.
My tongue a blindfold
drawn by you finds you,
finding with each space that comes
it is coming in your shape.