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?)”