Nicknames
by rg cantalupo
Spike never told me what his real name was.
Nor Baby San, nor Devil, nor any of the others
from my squad. When the chopper dropped
out of the flaring sky, they stepped waist-deep
into the rice paddies anonymous, their clean,
green fatigues stripped of names. Later,
after the firefight ended and they emerged--
mud-born, leeches sprouting from their veins--
the bush burned new identities on their chests.
Home flashed into a snapshot of “The World”--
a back porch in Iowa, a corner deli in Brooklyn,
a park bench in Portland under blue-gray skies.
Even I emerged—after two purple-hearts--
named, pinned with Magnet Man like a rabbit’s
foot with bad karma: Mortars, AK’s, Bouncing
Bettys, Rocket Propelled Grenades, even
bamboo pungi sticks had snake eyes for my
skin. That’s the way it was. Starlight shadows
and one-eyed jacks. Prayers to Elephant and the
God of Rock n’ Roll. A silver crucifix to save a
bullet to the head. Was. Is. Was. Night terrors
and night sweats. Red sand sifting through my
fingers—the torn sandbag I filled—the berm
dropping two inches too low—the match-head
piece of shrapnel severing a spine. Was. Is. Was.
What I did and didn’t do. My palm holds a rice-
paper rubbing of his name—PFC Jeffrey R.
Jennings—but we all knew him as Florida, Florida
with that Tallahassee drawl and Saint Christopher
staring down from his steel pot like a benevolent
third eye. Would’ve been twenty the day after
we walked out the wire on night patrol. Would’ve
been Jeff maybe. Mr. Jenkins. Sir. Father. Friend.
Would’ve brought oranges to my mouth when
I called, oranges and sand--
r. g. cantalupo’s work has been published in over a hundred literary journals throughout the United States, Canada, and England. He is the Founder and Artistic Director of Studio Theater West in Santa Monica, CA and a Dual-Genre MFA graduate in Poetry and Creative Non-fiction at Vermont College of Fine Arts.
by rg cantalupo
Spike never told me what his real name was.
Nor Baby San, nor Devil, nor any of the others
from my squad. When the chopper dropped
out of the flaring sky, they stepped waist-deep
into the rice paddies anonymous, their clean,
green fatigues stripped of names. Later,
after the firefight ended and they emerged--
mud-born, leeches sprouting from their veins--
the bush burned new identities on their chests.
Home flashed into a snapshot of “The World”--
a back porch in Iowa, a corner deli in Brooklyn,
a park bench in Portland under blue-gray skies.
Even I emerged—after two purple-hearts--
named, pinned with Magnet Man like a rabbit’s
foot with bad karma: Mortars, AK’s, Bouncing
Bettys, Rocket Propelled Grenades, even
bamboo pungi sticks had snake eyes for my
skin. That’s the way it was. Starlight shadows
and one-eyed jacks. Prayers to Elephant and the
God of Rock n’ Roll. A silver crucifix to save a
bullet to the head. Was. Is. Was. Night terrors
and night sweats. Red sand sifting through my
fingers—the torn sandbag I filled—the berm
dropping two inches too low—the match-head
piece of shrapnel severing a spine. Was. Is. Was.
What I did and didn’t do. My palm holds a rice-
paper rubbing of his name—PFC Jeffrey R.
Jennings—but we all knew him as Florida, Florida
with that Tallahassee drawl and Saint Christopher
staring down from his steel pot like a benevolent
third eye. Would’ve been twenty the day after
we walked out the wire on night patrol. Would’ve
been Jeff maybe. Mr. Jenkins. Sir. Father. Friend.
Would’ve brought oranges to my mouth when
I called, oranges and sand--
r. g. cantalupo’s work has been published in over a hundred literary journals throughout the United States, Canada, and England. He is the Founder and Artistic Director of Studio Theater West in Santa Monica, CA and a Dual-Genre MFA graduate in Poetry and Creative Non-fiction at Vermont College of Fine Arts.