My mother took me to a tea room.
She promised a special treat.
What kind of tea would it be?
Some tea brought from China, pressed into a cake,
Aged so that it was even older than I?
Some tea from Japan, fine-leafed and green,
Served in a cup more delicate than my dreams?
We entered into ordinary room that tried to make itself special
With cloying incense and scarf-draped lamps.
No other customers, for she had reserved the entirety of the hour.
The server poured us tea,
From a commonplace pot into commonplace cups.
She told us that we were to swirl it once
Then pour it out quickly into a bowl on the table.
A woman came and read our fortunes aloud,
Speaking with a fake Creole accent,
And made us each a taped recording.
I carried mine for years.
The taste of the tea I never drank lingers on my tongue.
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