Call it "Riparian Man's Consort".
As my hair was still cut straight at my brows' tops,
I'd play about our front door, pulling blossoms.
You'd walk by on bamboo stilts, horsing around,
You'd walk about my chair, playing with cobalt plums.
Two small humans, without animus or suspicion.
At 14 I was consort to My Lord You.
I would not laugh, as I was bashful.
Turning down my mouth [originally: facial apparatus], I'd look at our wall.
You'd call on a thousand occasions; I wouldn't look back.
And so on and so forth.