Tea, D.A. Powell

During my junior year of college, my poetry professor gave us three collections to choose from and told us to write an essay about our selection for the end of the semester. It was a small class – maybe twenty of us on a full day – and most of our time was spent workshopping each other’s pieces. I was one of only two juniors in the class, and I felt intimidated by my classmates, not because they were better poets than me (I don’t remember how any of us ranked in that regard, though I’m sure many of them were), but because they seemed so comfortable with themselves and with each other. I, on the other hand, made sure to come to class early so I could get the seat that pressed into the back corner, slightly outside the circle of desks.

The only downside to that seat was…