The alphabet flexes its muscle.
A stands for apologies and axes.
In a world at war, art is an apple
I cannot chew for clenching my jaw,
a fruit that never ripens, but it sits
on my tongue like a communion wafer
I am forbidden to spit out. True,
hymns draw no blood, break no bones,
but we cannot warble our way out of war,
and a writer's pen deflects no bullets.
Nouns and syllables as bandages
do not staunch bloody fear.