An apple I cannot chew
for clenching my jaws,
this fruit neither decays
nor ripens. It sits like
a communion wafer
on my tongue. Forbidden
to spit it out, I choke.
Shyness rings my bell,
and lugging a bag of excuses
tells me not to tell,
to be modest, not honest.

Avoidance is a third person
slurping weak tea from my cup.
A is also for apologies and axes.
The alphabet flexes.