Abstinence

Sex and death: I've done with those
narcotic urges sprung at birth:
a particular skin smell, the way
a tiny muscle in someone's face
moves; a crumbling disc encoded
in the genome, hearing loss or a heart
triggered to self-harm at 54.

Given a chance I'd kick the habit,
renounce flesh for the rough weave
of vows. Whichever deity it is looks down
I'd be there, cross-legged in the street,
not begging alms but dishing out
spells and charms: a traffic-stopping
amulet for jay-walkers, a mantra
for revolving doors, or a small
badge of the Virgin, bodged
and soldered from recycled tin.

I'd scrutinise the crowd, make a sign
I hope you'd recognise and you,
being mortal still, you'd have the edge,
humour me in passing, pass
the time of day as if we'd never lost
that way with language lovers share
trading their fear for their desire.

(from Amicable Numbers)

© Mike Barlow