You never ring on Sundays to have supermarket conversations.
You are just here wearing no knickers
telling all about your once volcanic disposition,
how once a year you night bus and dress in posters.
Teach me how to wear so much weight on one wrist.
Next year, at midnight, we will scale Arthur’s seat.
I will bring the drinks.
It will be strange for you to look down at yourself,
your outline, a surgery scar
dimming from blush to taupe.
Hannah Jane Walker
For instructions on how to submit your own poems, click here
All poems from our Poetry Map of Scotland are subject to copyright and should not be reproduced otherwise without the poet's permission.