Your first stop: the room of swallowed amniotic fluid –
every tile of the hospital room where your mother gave birth
every sheet and faucet reproduced with shining accuracy –
and you, your infant self: a mess of tissue
with your mouth wrinkled and unscreaming
in the corner, doctor’s smooth doctor hand
on your back, raising and lowering at the crease
in his white-coated shoulder.
Room of gulped sea-water, room of swigged semen, room of licked tears.
Room of purchased lunch, hall of exotic meals, room of unbrushed teeth.
The alco-hall, McDonald’s hamburger from 1992. You’re so thirsty.