Don’t say, “Get your nose out of those books.” If you say that you can’t come with me. No matter how hard you try you couldn’t slay the dragon for the queen who’s afraid. You couldn’t board the three masted barque bound for Tai-pei on the high tide. Ill climb the masts and dance on the yardarms into the China Seas. I’ll look back, wind in my hair and clothes, and think of you there in your soiled memories with fences all around. I’ll gaze at the old woman stooped with the yoke of water buckets, black frock, dingy alley, smelling like ancient musk and remember your scowling admonishment. When I reach the frozen peak in Katmandu I’ll remember you saying, “You can’t” and I’ll know. “Don’t say” means, “I can’t, so I need for you not to go.”
“Don’t say” only means that you could not know
because you believed all the fences that they built.