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Ectopic by Aisling Towl


Two months it takes my black dog to leave her dank bed.

Shelled and supple, I meet my maker

Don’t see Her but She feels of moss; chemical.

I am asleep when they excavate, then

No longer, they beseech — not pregnant.

Cold river pouring heart-ways,

Clavicle rain, whirlpool. Relatively unscathed—

She’s a doctor, I believe her.

Years I keep her, held in stitches, phantom.

Each month again she leaves me, weaning.

Aisling Towl is a poet, playwright and arts critic from South London. Her writing has been published by Oberon/Bloomsbury in the UK and Samuel French in the US, and she is a regular contributor to the online theatre magazine Plays Playlist. As a poet, she has performed at venues across London and the U.K. including Richmix, Freeword Centre and Brainchild Festival, and for organisations including Merky Books and Sofar Sounds.


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