Diana
A train hit my cousin.
The detective said,
Diana was trying to cut across the tracks
after a train passed. Another struck her.
She must have thought the noise
was the first train. It killed her instantly
She and I were close
in age.
I’ve got lots of cousins
sixty or seventy.
I don’t even try to keep track.
A third of them are drug addicts,
another third are fundamentalist Christians,
and the other third a combination of the two.
Diana, one of the latter
loved speed and men
that could get her speed.
She was an articulate hooker,
dope dealer, and evangelist.
One time, while living in my house
she argued against the theory of evolution
as we played rummy. That night
she seemed good. She was clean,
working her court mandated program.
But six months of anonymous
monotonous meetings
and a diet of lemon zest, sea salt
and paprika seasoned chicken
she got restless.
The tedious paperwork from parenting
classes stacked up and everyone
she owed money started calling,
and speed
well it apparently has a good side.
Once she told me
she was not on speed
but when she was she could get things done.
Mark and her emptied,
prepped, painted an entire apartment
and cleaned the carpet
in less than forty eight hours
on one eight ball
and got their whole deposit back.
The last time I saw her
Diana had the look speed freaks
get just after they run out of money
and just before another catastrophe:
bored of paranoia
sunk and wandering eyes
thin, pocked skin.
But she did show up on Christmas Eve
to see one of her daughters
and most of the time she didn’t
get it together to show up for anything.
The world has a way of punishing
people who don’t pay attention
to the little things: late fees,
lost jobs, court dates, trains.
They all pile up.