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The Times reported that “Miss Elliot” choked to death on a sandwich.
Rolling Stone said she inhaled her own vomit. But Elliot 
wasn’t even her name.

She changed it from Cohen—anything to sound more goyish. She starved
off a hundred pounds, snorted coke in dressing rooms.
Jimi Hendrix sent her flowers.

Her last night on Earth was spent at a party thrown by Mick Jagger, just
before her heart surrendered in a bed familiar with death.
Gone were the flowers.

Gone were the Percodan pills, the bed sheets stolen from hotel rooms.
She left behind her records. A little girl, seven years old. Not
a fucking ham sandwich.

She stands solo on a late-night talk show, black and white, geometric,
all hairspray and feathers and shiny polyester. She begs us:
Dream a little dream of me.

Claire Christoff

Elegy for Mama