I think my parents are in town, but I haven’t heard anything yet. It is a giant city with a drooling maw. They’re probably smiling and squeaking toys in a faraway borough. I start to suspect that I am not really part of the family, that the way you get invited to the family is by having a family of your own. I am in my pajamas with the cats. By the logic of reproduction, I am the cat’s pajamas. It’s true what they say— you can defer being a real person indefinitely. Every day, I type my sentences and take my walks and my simple meals with wine. Every night I assert my rights. The women who tell me their husbands are their kids. The women up all night, strolling the day away. A while back I received an itinerary. Today it’s easy to feel assured the flight has landed. By the logic of families, I am the errant son. As the princess in the tower, I am obliged to wave a pink scarf occasionally, and with desperation. Last night, I pulled the death card for future and shuddered as I thought, It’s coming for us all; have your babies. I’ll raise this solitude like a foundling. By tonight, someone will have accused me of not showing up.
Becca Klaver is the author of the poetry collections Empire Wasted (Bloof Books) and LA Liminal (Kore Press). "Reproductive Logic" comes from her book of poems and spells Ready for the World, which will be out soon from Black Lawrence Press.