The Whimpering Wood War Part 2. (Telling daddy goodbye)Emily's voice hops from bump to bump , Indeed, to bump along the white stucco hallway. Her voice plays leap-frog over itself in the snow and partially leaps Spaces where doors once were bridges Her voice would run over regardless the weather. Now her voice is the chatty mail carrier stopping for a romp with a neighborhood dog. The dog is playful and It is fun and She will wait for her message. The chemically white sand walkway leads her voice to a forbidden temple hither-to unknown. It is forbidden! Unknown! But is it dangerous!?!? It's a mystery! What if it is dangerous?!?! What if there are tigers with long fangs for mustaches? And their fangs (in the kitchen, the microwave beeps) touch her voice and they feel dry and sticky as though a solitary now hidden pickle (in the laundry room, the dryer buzzes) was recently used to (the microwave beeps) remove apricot syrup from their wind-chapped (beep) surface! The kind of dry sticky feeling that (beep) is the inside of a sand-torn leather (the dryer still buzzes) boot stretching out and (outside, someone is mowing the lawn) open as it (buzz) relaxes forward a low rumbling (beep) of anticipated satisfaction, (buzz) constant and (beep) increasing, (downstairs, the furnace hums) out and open, as it stretches forward, moving its mouth and those fangs forward and closer, and the fangs have (the furnace stops humming) that dry sticky feeling of (buzz) a million tiny hairs soft (buzz) and fragile (beep) and penetrating (the furnace hums) the skin via a million tiny pores! And what if the roof should fall! Calamity! Atrocious! How fearsome! It is the end of times! A cataclysm! Her voice bounces off the chrome television set (Who's skin radiates the fragrance of necklace-petals covered by the carpet's fall! Who's chin, retracted in determination, lords its shadow over the expanse of bed below!) and back toward the hallway over bed properly made (despite the slight rectangular indentation marring the comforter, shaming it into silence) Into the hallway stumbling Her voice is an avalanche. The walls stare wanting to murmur among themselves Emily Arms collapsed depending on her stable sides Stands waiting Eyes coated in butterscotch lip-gloss Appliances moaning petitions to her feet They are unattended The are unheeded and Emily, Her voice a skipping stone ready and unable to relax into the water's surface, Waits, standing- a kitten- begging before columns of monoliths of rubber And tin And glass that reflect caricature kitties with word bubbles saying, "Meow" Over and over "Meow," Repeating, "Meow," Again, "Meow," A scraggle of beard with eyes cages her felinity under a laundry basket "Meow?" and laughs expelling the yellow mud from the teeth behind the beard ichor stains the snow beneath the kitten's paws behind the teeth steel wool on slate issues forth a "what have I here? you are an orphan" two bearded eyes peer into the basket and it is empty Emily is standing in the clouds, licking her paws, rubbing her face Below, a clock is winding She is clean She breathes It is quiet She feels the winding clock From when she held it in her hand The after-taste of the firm hand-shake And the last she heard of him- "Keep the gutters clean" Then, the winding stops, Now, and exhausted echo collapses on the porch of her ear- "What games should we play?"