It wasn’t a ham sandwich killed her. Likely
it started with the Dexedrine and the crash
diets and only stopped once her heart – warm
and wilder – weakened, broke, dashed –
like half-baked lies Allan led Sue to spread
with rockets, bells, and poetry about some
inconsequential half-eaten ham sandwich
on the nightstand by her deathbed. Her legacy
falsely framed that loneliest kind of lonely. She called
Michelle from London that July night, maybe longing
to linger ‘til dawn after two weeks of sold-out shows
at the Palladium, ecstatic from the standing
ovations with stars shining bright above her prime,
just 32, and a poet not soon to run out of rhyme.