Nicknames

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.
After my second purple heart, I got 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 flesh. 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 broken
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 holding a rice-paper rubbing of a name —
PFC Jeffrey R. Jenkins — 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...