PLAYING MURDER
by cynthia ring

Church basement’s unlocked—       those exit signs glow like

                              some messiah-man’s busted lip. 

steering wheel can’t catch fire—     

                  I’m a townsperson.

                  My job’s to walk through pitch-black hallways, and

                  Scream at texas-chainsaw-reverse-dracula doppelgangers

                  while 

            the invisible canary atop Rebekah’s shoulder sings

            “Baby,        don’t hurt me” to that tall boy

            When they crawl under a plastic fold-up table. 

                  SOMEONE’S                       DED… 

He whispered in Rebekah’s saran-wrap ear, so she died at 22:35,

only to rise up again like a funhouse figure, 

move both popsicle stick legs

like a rusted wind-up toy

stuck in the “intimates” section at wal-mart. 

MUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRDEEERRRR!

Sarah’s sprawled out on a jesus company conveyor belt. 

      Rebekah speaks fluent kazoo:

“Last night, Sarah was hit over the head with a hymnal

‘Cause the killer didn’t like her father’s preaching! 

(Who did it?)”