Ectopic
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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