about the death of Dorothy Stratten,
the Playboy playmate first discovered
in a Vancouver Dairy Queen,
I somehow confuse her with the woman
who sold my family our tent trailer.
For show and tell that week, I announce
that the woman who sold my family our tent trailer
was murdered and the teacher just nods her head
and moves on to the next child, a girl
who brings a doll she received for her birthday.
At the time, I’ve only known of death
from young birds who fell from their nests,
a few flushed goldfish, and my mother’s scissors
as she cut newspaper obituaries
she’d later place inside her Bible.
That a famous person has died, a famous person
who sold my family our prized tent trailer,
makes weekend getaways even more exotic:
each time we camp that summer I lie awake
listening to the crickets through the tarp walls
thankful, yet still uncertain, whether my happiness
somehow led to Dorothy’s demise.
