Before the boats were built
 we sat on trees felled by storm
 and made songs for the river.
  
 My sisters came and we laughed 
 at what we wore, our confusion
 and skin. There were no synonyms.
  
 When the elders arrived, the fires 
 burned on and Kwa-Sun used a leaf
 to wipe her lips and Fo-Beh 
  
 spoke of village scandal. I thought
 how nice never to grow up,
 how nice to remain a girl.
  
 My mother gave me a doll
 made of tiger-skin and twigs,
 which I kept between my legs at night.
  
 And with it I dreamed of what’s
 beyond the river, why Bo-Kan 
 never crossed it, not even to sing
  
 of its fury. What a strange boy
 he was, sitting in the nightcold,
 no blanket against his knees.